


And I Can't Help Myself

by americandy



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biker Gang, Drug Running, Drug Smuggling, Gay Bar, Implied Violence, M/M, Not Beta Read, Priest, Q slur, Will be Explicit, also cocaine, but only marijuana, hella canon divergence, heroin probably, just kidding about no drug usage, maybe marijuana, no drug usage by characters, only smuggling and shipping, ragnar is a manipulative bastard, youth minister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americandy/pseuds/americandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athelstan has been a youth minister since he was about twelve, and he's just turned old enough to be made priest. One of the first things he decides to do is post fliers for his church up outside of the seedier establishments in town, including a bar called Old Valhalla. He doesn't count on being caught, and he definitely doesn't count on the owner of the bar being the man he met at a gay bar just days before becoming a priest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write this AU forever, sorry if it's derivative, I'm definitely going to be posting a playlist to go along with it as well. Title from the Grizzly Bear song called 'Sleeping Ute'. Comments are always welcome! 10/4 ETA - sorry guys a bug crawled up my ass about an athelnar woodstock au so that's what i have put this aside momentarily to write... part 1 of 3 should be up tonight

The brick wall was warm against his fingertips, even through the fliers he’d been taping up, and the sun feels as though it’s not five feet away from his back. The black of his collared shirt absorbs the heat of the summer day’s rays in an almost-punishing fashion, and for a moment, Athelstan wondered if it would be reasonable to take it off, to leave it in the truck until he’s finished with the task at hand and continue on in the t-shirt he wore underneath. He wondered it for only a moment because then his reasoning kicked in, and he chided himself for it. There’s something decidedly blasphemous about being a man of the cloth for less than three days and already trying to weasel out of it. He’s sweating now, rivulets drip down his temples and the back of his neck, but his work is almost done.

One of the first things he wanted to do as a priest, as someone anointed with the power to change things for the better, was make the Lord’s presence known to those in the town who had no regard for the well-being of the rest of its citizens. Currently, he was outside of a particularly seedy place called Old Valhalla, plastering its exterior with fliers in a selection of neon colors, all bearing the same message: Jesus Saves, followed by the address and phone number of his parish’s church. Old Valhalla was the second place he’d been to, and it was truly a vile place, rumored to be a front for a drug trafficking organization. A collection of motorcycles were parked out front, all adorned with the same shape, three triangles that seemed to interlock in the center. Athelstan had never seen in it before but he made a mental note to do research on its connotations and possible gang connections.

In the midst of taping up one of the last of the sheets, the great wooden door to the place swung open and the clamor of the activity inside was audible for a few seconds. Athelstan tensed immediately, and started moving faster. He heard the person approach due to the clink of metal and the heel-toe heel-toe of a pair of boots.

“What do we have here? Jesus saves, hmm? Let’s see if he’ll save you from _us_.” With that, a large hand grasps his shoulder and turns him around roughly. He comes face to face with a man at least a foot taller than himself, with dark hair down past his shoulders and a beard. He wears a leather motorcycle jacket with a patch bearing the same interlocking triangles pinned to the lapel and a sweat-stained undershirt beneath. His fingers dig painfully into Athelstan’s shoulder and his other hand pushes him roughly toward the door, causing him to stumble.

“Oh, little priest, you have picked the wrong place to fuck with today.” The man said with a gruff laugh. Athelstan’s mind was racing a mile a minute, regretting immensely that he hadn’t left notice with anyone of where he was going. A part of him had assumed that most people had the sense not to kill a priest, for fear of heavenly retribution, but then he supposed the man behind him and the individuals inside Old Valhalla weren’t most people.

“I haven’t done anything you can’t just rip—“

“Open the door, priest.” The man behind him couldn’t spare a hand from the grip he had to open it himself. Athelstan hesitated for a second, wondering if this were his chance to make break for it.

“I am stronger than you can think of, and you have brought this on yourself by disrespecting us.” He punctuated the word disrespect by digging his fingers deeper into Athelstan’s shoulder, as though he were trying to pulverize the muscle underneath. Athelstan pushed the heavy wooden door open a crack, turning his head slightly to look back at the man out of the corner of his eye.

“What kind of place is this that the Lord’s name is a sign of disrespect?” The man gave him another shove, and the door opened enough to allow them through, the chaos of the place enveloping them.

“It is the principle of the thing!” The man shouted over the din. The interior of the place had long wooden tables crossing the middle of it, like some sort of banquet hall, and a bar decorated with a collection of shields running along the side of one wall. A fireplace was at the end of the room, and off that wall was a hallway leading somewhere unknowable. No visible exits.

“Oy! Floki!” The man grunted out, and a man turned around from the bar, presumably Floki. He had thick black rings around his eyes like a punk, but that was the beginning and ending of that aesthetic, as he wore a leather jacket like the man behind him, jeans, and motorcycle boots.

Floki’s eyes widened as they passed over Athelstan and he crossed the room to them immediately.

“Oh, Rollo, where did you find this?” He asked, rubbing his fingers thoughtfully over his chin.

“Putting up fliers outside of our bar. Show him, priest.” Rollo removed the hand he had on Athelstan’s back and reached in front of him, ripping the rest of the offending papers out of his hand.

“Jesus saves, does he? We’ll see if he’ll save you from Ragnar. Come have a seat with us, priest.” Floki stepped to his side, roughly hooking an arm around his neck, and Rollo moved to his other side. They walked awkwardly to sit in the middle of one of the tables, drawing more attention the deeper down the row they went. People crowded around, yelling things that blended together, a mass of leather and rowdiness.

“Someone go get Ragnar!” Rollo yelled to them. Athelstan wondered what this Ragnar would do to him, why he was the be-all-end-all of this place, what horrific things he’d done to earn the respect of people like this. He wondered if his time was limited now, and if he would make it out of here alive. Shoulder to shoulder between these men, trapped in a crowd of people who wanted to see something happen to him, he wondered if this was how he would die.

 _Not yet_. He felt the lord’s presence with him; felt that even if they would hurt him, he wouldn’t die today. He looked up from the wood of the table, and saw that the circle of men and women that had formed around him was being parted. When he saw who stepped through the dividing bodies, his jaw dropped.

“Ragnar! Come, we have a man of God here with us today.” Floki began cheerfully, slapping Athelstan’s back as though they were all old friends who would merely catch up. “Rollo found him outside, putting up these fliers.” He held one up in the hand not keeping Athelstan in place.

Ragnar’s left eye twitched, and the corner of his mouth turned up. He stepped forward to the table, placing his palms on its surface so that he could lean forward to take Athelstan in. He seemed to watch Athelstan for a full minute before he spoke.

“Jesus… jesus saves. I will speak with the priest in my office.” He looked to Rollo. “Bring him there for me.”

“Should I come as well?” Floki asked, obviously wanting to get in on what he perceived to be as a beat-down. Ragnar crooked his head to the side, barely furrowing an eyebrow.

“No, no. I will speak to him alone.” Athelstan hadn’t taken his eyes off of Ragnar, but Floki’s scowl at this news was so immense he could see it out of the corner of his eye. He looked a bit like a mime with the black rings around his eyes and the cartoonish expression of distaste across his face. Having had the final word, Ragnar turned on his heel and walked back in the direction he had come from.

“Say your last prayer,” Floki growled in Athelstan’s ear as they watched Ragnar retreat. Rollo stood, yanking Athelstan up by his collar as he did so.

The sound of everything around him died away as he walked the rest of the length of the table, faded away to an oxymoronic quiet roar. They walked until they reached the hallway, which they turned down, passing a few doors before stopping in front of one with a plaque like you might find in any office that merely read ‘boss’. Rollo knocked, and after waiting a beat for a response, he opened the door. The room wasn’t extremely large, and it was filled mostly with stacks of what looked like silver duct-tape building blocks. Piles and piles of them, lining the walls, on the desk, the chairs in front of it, they even rose in a tower behind Ragnar where he stood at the desk.

It took Athelstan a second of looking at them to realize what they were, having never seen such an oddity before. Drugs. This was a literal drug den.

“Thank you, Rollo. Please offer Athelstan a seat.” Rollo shut the door behind them and stepped forward, knocking the stack of at least four of the bricks carelessly off one of the leather office chairs that sat opposite Ragnar’s desk.

“That will be all.” Ragnar said with a note of finality clearly suggesting that Rollo should leave.

“Will you need a cleaning crew?” Rollo asked just before he opened the door. The connotations of what that meant, of what Ragnar was capable of, crashed against Athelstan like a wave. His breath left his lungs, as though he’d just stepped outside in the dead middle of winter. He watched Ragnar, waiting to see what his response would be. He watched Rollo intently for a beat before turning his eyes to the spread of papers on the desktop in front of him.

“No. I do not think there will be a mess.” At that, Athelstan heard Rollo exit. Once the door closed, Ragnar looked up at him.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He asked, sitting down himself. Athelstan swallowed around the lump in his throat and took the suggestion offered to him. He watched Ragnar raptly, having no idea where this was going. Having Ragnar’s eyes focused on him and him alone made his stomach roll, especially due to the fact that his face was entirely expressionless. His discomfort was assuaged quickly though, as Ragnar smiled at him. It seemed so contradictory to all that Athelstan had experienced that day, up until that point, so absurd that Athelstan found himself smiling back.

“Imagine my surprise… When someone comes knocking on my door, telling me we’ve got a priest defacing our property, only for me to come out and see you. It seemed like such an impossibility that I didn’t think you could be the person I assumed you to be, I thought that certainly my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the puzzle pieces slid together, as they could do nothing else.” His smile faded, and when he spoke, his voice was light in tone. “Don’t I know you?”

Fear rose in Athelstan’s stomach for a completely different reason now, because Ragnar did. Not by name, but by sight. He realized who Ragnar was the second he had laid eyes on him. He didn’t think he’d soon forget a man who looked like that… He certainly didn’t imagine he’d ever see him again.

The place had smelled like cigarettes and a sampler of every cologne he’d ever been offered walking through a department store.  The smell wrapped around him when he walked in, unfamiliar and permeating. The sights that greeted him just through the door almost had him going right back out of it again, but he steeled himself, knowing this was something he had to do.

Men made up the population of the place, by the bar, on the dance floor, sitting in booths, against the walls, everywhere. It was… something else, to see them like this, right in front of his face. There was something very different and real about warm bodies moving against each other that any sort of internet research could never bring about. It wasn’t like this was something he’d been exposed to, only something he knew— _no_. He couldn’t follow that trail of thought. Seeing men coupled up like this, he knew he was in the right place. Their unabashed intimacy here, the way they touched and kissed each other, was a veritable feast for his eyes.

He vaguely thought about leaving, having confirmed that thing about himself by mere sight alone, but there was something magnetic about the place that kept him there, kept him walking to the bar.

The music playing was slow and inky, a girl’s voice crooning out over smooth jazz. Once he got to the actual counter of the bar, he waited for the man in the black t-shirt behind it to come up to him. While he was busy with other patrons, Athelstan glanced up and down the length of the bar, surprised to find someone staring back at him. A man with chin length brown hair, a short beard, and eyes as blue as a wolf’s met his own gaze. He wore a leather jacket and a ripped shirt underneath. He didn’t look away from Athelstan, so Athelstan broke away himself, letting his eyes settle on the bartender once more. The man was a few feet from him, pouring drinks for a party of people a few bodies away.

Curious, Athelstan looked back to the man at the end of the bar. He found him watching the bartender now too, and then his eyes were back on Athelstan. He smirked, and then looked down at his drink. He tossed his head back and downed the amber colored liquid in one go, and Athelstan couldn’t stop himself from watching. Then the man at the bar left his glass and turned the corner, beginning to walk toward him. Athelstan’s heart seemed to be inside of his mouth, or at the back of his throat, he could hear his pulse more than the music and he turned from the man to the bartender once again. The bartender was just finishing up with the man to Athelstan’s direct left, and he smiled when he found Athelstan looking at him.

“What can I get you?” He yelled over the music and the thud of Athelstan’s pulse in his ears… Athelstan hadn’t thought this through, hadn’t looked up any alcoholic drinks to purchase because he didn’t think he’d manage to get this far. He faltered, his mouth gaping open like a fish out of water.

“He’ll have a Dirty Shirley,” came a voice behind him, matching the bartender’s volume, handing over a card to pay. Athelstan turned, and there was the man from the end of the bar, up close and very personal, right behind him.

“You look like you’re lost, dear,” the man said, quiet, in his ear, just for him to hear. Athelstan turned around fully, leaning back against the bar. The bartender set a drink down that was -- for all intents and purposes -- pink, though it could maybe pass for the lightest shade of blush red. The man from the end of the bar picked it up and held it out for him.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” He said in Athelstan’s ear again, and Athelstan felt his beard brush against his cheek. He felt like his body was dividing in half, between wanting to reach out and touch and carry on a conversation, so he settled for all of the above. He took his Dirty Shirley from the man, sipping it through the thin black straw. The taste was much stronger than any communion wine but not dissimilar so he managed to hold his facial expression together for the most part. He saw it had a cherry in it, it did taste vaguely of cherry, and really wasn’t so bad. With his other hand he reached out to the man, feeling the lapel of his leather jacket while he leaned up into his personal space to respond.

“I think I’m just where I should be,” He said in a voice he’d never heard himself use before, the closest thing he could think of was the hushed tone of confession. He didn’t want to lean back, step back out of this man’s space. The leather of his jacket was warm like it was that way permanently, from days and days spent riding in the sun. The man seemed to sense Athelstan’s desire to remain close to him, and one of his hands came to rest on Athelstan’s hip before sliding around to his lower back, the material of Athelstan’s worn t-shirt a thin barrier between the touch and his skin.

 The man curled his head down so that his lips were right at Athelstan’s ear, brushing against it gently. Athelstan let his hand slip beneath the man’s jacket and touch what was there.

“Is this your first time at a place like this?” The man asked, his breath and lips warm against Athelstan’s ear. Athelstan reached behind him and set his drink down. The situation had escalated so quickly and he was giving himself over to it and the scariest part about it was that he _wanted_ to. Guilt made his other hand hesitate before joining its companion under the man’s leather jacket, and lust made him press his mouth to the skin of the man’s bare neck before he answered.

“Yes.” The man’s other hand came around Athelstan’s waist, pulling him close, pulling them all the way together, flush, finally. Then it was at the side of Athelstan’s face, terribly delicate, brushing his fingertips down the side of his jaw, tipping his mouth up. Athelstan wanted it so bad, he couldn’t bear the space between them any longer, and he pressed his lips to the man’s. Just once, very quickly, before pulling away. The scratch of beard against his mouth and the outright desire for _more_ had him pressing his lips against the man’s again almost as soon as they’d parted.

He held Athelstan’s face softly, like he believed it was made of glass that would break, but their lips met and opened under each other with an ease that was anything but dainty. It was as though they were breathing life into each other, two drowning men having found a supply of oxygen, and Athelstan was gasping for it.

It was nothing he had ever known, it felt like this was what life was for, to have someone lick and kiss at your mouth _like this_ , touch you _like this_. It was too much, it was too good, and Athelstan knew it. He had pulled away from the man, breathless, a look of fear grasping his otherwise kiss-wrecked features. His mouth was pink and wet and his cheeks were as red as his drink and he needed to leave and so he did, wrenching himself out of the man’s arms, running to the door, running away.

He never expected to see the man at the end of the bar again. He certainly never expected the man at the end of the bar to be the owner of Old Valhalla.

“Yes,” He answered Ragnar, finally.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

> **_I'm a man_ **  
>  **_I'm a twisted fool_ **  
>  **_my hands are twisted too_ **  
>  **_five fingers, two black hooves_ **  
>  **_I'm a man, don't spin me a lie_ **  
>  **_got toes and I can smile_ **  
>  _**I'm crooked but upright  
>  \-- ** '[toes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4ifSSg1HAo)' by glass animals_

Ragnar gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head at Athelstan’s admission. It wasn’t like he really needed confirmation. Unless he had impaired vision, Athelstan’s identity must have been as clear to him as Ragnar’s had been.

“What is your name?” He asked, straightening the spread of papers on his desk into a single neat stack, keeping his eyes downcast as he did so.

“Athelstan,” He told Ragnar, and then his eyes were back up again.

“Athelstan…” He said it like he was testing it out. “I have been thinking of you, Athelstan.” He admitted. Ragnar didn’t seem like a man who _admitted_ things honestly, and so Athelstan felt compelled to as well.

“And I you,” He said, and Ragnar tilted his head to the side, a look of near childlike confusion crossing his features.

“So why, then, did you run from me? I have spent as many hours as I have been awake over the past few days with _you_ hovering in the back of my mind, with that look on your face like I was a monster, straight out of your nightmares.”

 _Because you are_ , Athelstan thought to himself, but thought better of saying anything. He had no idea about the kind of individual Ragnar was when all he had been was the man at the end of the bar. The gentleness he had used when touching Athelstan that night was part of what had made Rollo’s question (“Will you be needing a clean-up crew?”) so shocking. Those same hands that had tilted his face up with such sweet softness were capable of doing things so horrible to another person that a ‘mess’ was made. That had been Ragnar’s word.

But he hadn’t known that three days ago, that wasn’t why he ran, and Athelstan supposed an explanation was one of the easiest things he could give Ragnar.

He sighed, looking at the room around the two of them, the way the bricks of whatever made such a strange backdrop.

“I didn’t run because I was afraid of you, I ran because I was afraid of me.” His eyes fell back on Ragnar, trying to gauge his expression. When he didn’t interrupt, Athelstan took it as a sign to keep talking.

“I went to that place… I went there to confirm something about myself. I needed to go; I needed to go before this.” He gestured to his clerical collar.

“I still do not understand why you ran? Surely – I – you could tell that I would have… helped you to do that.” Ragnar’s voice was so quiet. He folded his hands over each other on the desktop, just atop the papers. Athelstan felt uncomfortable, he felt a certain longing that had previously been ambiguous -- his whole life just a vague pull, now a specific beast with eyes of ice. Ragnar didn’t seem as though he had said it to be salacious, but it affected Athelstan just the same, and he had to stop himself from imagining what would have happened if he hadn’t run away.

He felt sad for the missed opportunity, something he would miss until the day he died.

“No, you do not understand. I didn’t go there with the intention of meeting anyone, nor acting on the physicality of… that thing I desired to confirm. I went there to, well, I don’t know. I’ve replayed that night over and over in my head, and the longer I think of it, the more confused I become about my motivations for it. I ran away because I was scared of the affect you had on me, Ragnar. Ten minutes with you and I had touched on a cardinal sin. I welcomed it, and that scared me. Being with you would have meant I had no power over it and I couldn’t let myself. I do not think I could have gone through with this,” He gestured to his collar again, “had I carried on with you. The guilt would have stopped me.”

Ragnar leaned back in his chair, moving his hands from the table to his lap.

“I thought your god was forgiving. Is that not true? Or does he save within a set of limits.” Ragnar did not pose his last thought like a question so much as a statement, a little righteous in tone, seemingly at having found a fallacy in Athelstan’s faith. Athelstan wasn’t fazed, he was entirely used to people who hadn’t found God questioning Him.

He smiled at Ragnar, not with teeth, for he wasn’t happy, he only knew better.

“What you have heard is true, He is all-forgiving. He forgives anyone who asks for it and accepts Him into their heart. However, because I have chosen to become a priest, there is a higher standard to which I must hold myself.”

Ragnar matched his smile, though it was one of happiness, at being challenged… told he was wrong.

“Do you think your god would save someone like me?” He still doubted Athelstan’s faith, was playing a game with him, but there was a slight change of tone in his voice.

“Of course. If you welcome Him into your heart, He will save you.” Athelstan spoke confidently, because he did believe what he was saying. Ragnar gave a turn of his head, an acquiescence, perhaps.

“You will not tell anyone about what I have in this room, will you, priest?” He asked, changing the subject, changing the way he addressed Athelstan. He stood up, walked around to the other side of the desk, and picked up the blocks Rollo had knocked on the floor one by one, adding them to the pile nearest him on the desk’s surface. He stopped just short of Athelstan’s chair.

Athelstan shifted, leaning back, unsure of how to continue on. He chewed the inside of his cheek, hating the fact that he was so unaware of criminal activity that he had no idea what it was Ragnar had.

However, he decided that might not be such a bad thing. He wanted to give Ragnar an idea of how minimal of a threat he was, to lessen the chance he might be harmed for his knowledge.

“Well, to do that, I would have to first know what those blocks are made of.” Athelstan spoke earnestly, hoping to sell his ignorance to the greatest degree possible. Ragnar smiled at him then, but it was an ugly smile, like a shark baring its teeth instead of an expression of joy.

“You are looking at forty pounds of China White heroin, priest. When all is said and shipped, it will bring the organization a little over a million dollars. We move this much product in about half a month, usually.” Ragnar sounded proud of it, like bringing this much destruction to the general public was a great thing.

 Athelstan’s stomach felt a sick at his lighthearted attitude, having had experience with the rehab program his church offered. He had seen the face of heroin addiction up close, seen the pain of it. And here Ragnar was on the other side of it, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

“Why would you tell me? Am I not less of a threat to you the more uninformed I am?” Athelstan asked him, because he really didn’t understand. Ragnar let out a bark of a laugh.

“No, no, no. You are not a threat to me _at all_ , priest. If you were to decide that you were feeling talkative, then I would do the same. Do you think that a church _here_ would really keep a priest they knew was queer?”

Ragnar’s words hurt him as badly as any physical violence would have. In fact, he rather wished Ragnar had decided to hurt him in a mortal way instead, because that was something he could move on from. Heal and get over. This was something that Ragnar could hang over his head, something that would not lessen in impact over time. Something that would never be any less true. Careers were ruined over things like this. Athelstan had watched more than one Father walk out the door over the span of his time at the church, and heard the whispers that followed them.

Just like that, after that extreme cruelty, Ragnar’s face changed, softened in a way.

“I do not want to be ugly with you, Athelstan, but I am not afraid to be. I have no reason to speak unless you give me one.” He paused, looking down at his feet. “Do you still think that I have a chance at salvation?” He asked, almost nervously, like he hadn’t just gotten done threatening Athelstan’s very livelihood. He felt like Ragnar might be trying to trick him again, trying to see if he was truly a messenger of the Lord, accepting of all those who might accept God, no matter the condition of their morality. He unclenched his jaw – he hadn’t realized he’d been gritting his teeth together until that moment – and let out a breath.

“Of course. The Lord offers salvation to all of those who accept him into their heart, and nothing you can say will change that.” Athelstan was sweating again, he could feel it on his upper lip and under the hair across his forehead.

Ragnar sat back against the desk, closer to Athelstan, but still not quite in front of him. He crossed his arms.

“In a business like this, nothing is certain. I have learned that the hard way, Athelstan. Your right hand man can literally stab you in the back without a second thought. Any day could be my last, and it may be… wise to consider what will happen to me afterward. Will you come back tomorrow with the word of your lord, something for me to read?” Ragnar asked him, and Athelstan almost couldn’t believe it. Ragnar hadn’t been playing at these questions as a test, he really was curious. Or perhaps he _was_ playing the long game, and Athelstan would find out later.

He knew he couldn’t trust Ragnar, and he knew he couldn’t upset him. On top of that, as a priest, he felt compelled to encourage any individual’s interest in the Lord. He sighed.

“I do not think I would make it through the front door.” He said, alluding to the vile persons in the bar’s main room. Those who had marched him in and crowded around, eager to see him get what was apparently coming to him.

He saw Ragnar’s jaw working for a moment.

“Do not worry about them. You can come before I open the bar for the day.” He said calmly, much differently than Athelstan had been expecting. After a brief hesitation, seeing no other obstacles to the proposed event, Athelstan nodded.

“I will come here tomorrow, Ragnar. If you can assure my safety, I will come here tomorrow.” Ragnar stood up and clasped his hands together, smiling again, this time a human expression instead of an animal display.

“Wonderful. Today I will walk you out the back door, Athelstan, but tomorrow you are welcome to come in through the front.” Ragnar turned toward the door, then stopped, and looked back at Athelstan.

“Are you coming?” He asked. Athelstan rose to his feet without a word. He didn’t have anything else to say to Ragnar. They walked out the door one after the other and he followed Ragnar down to the end of the hallway, to a large metal door. Ragnar pushed it open, and the sunlight was a shock to Athelstan’s eyes. He walked squinting out into it, the warmth and brightness, thankful that the encounter was over. He turned back to look at the place – maybe the whole thing had been one big damn fever dream – but there was Ragnar, _waving_ to him.

“See you tomorrow, Athelstan! Come by around eleven!” He shouted after him. Athelstan didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t want to give him any more power than he already had.

He turned the corner around the brick building, thankful to find that no one else was outside. Not a single flier remained on the wall; instead, they were all stuck to the church truck he’d driven out.

The Lord’s plan wasn’t obvious to him at this point. It seemed as though he had been through all of that for naught, and now he had bible study with the head of a biker gang to look forward to. Perhaps the Lord was testing him, punishing him for his indiscretion with Ragnar. He hoped he would pass.


	3. Chapter 3

Athelstan dreamt of Ragnar that night. He had twice out of the three nights past, but this was different. His brain had more detail to play with and incorporate and it didn’t shy away from doing so.

It started out like all of the others -- they were at the bar, playing the game of looking away and then back at each other. Ragnar swallowed his drink all in one gulp, then started making his way over to Athelstan. This time Athelstan watched him approach, ready and waiting.

The dream differed from reality in the progression of events… Ragnar looked as he did when Athelstan had seen him earlier that day, instead of when he was just the man at the end of the bar. They wasted no time with words or drinks, Athelstan simply slid his fingers into Ragnar’s hair, holding him at a distance yet pressing their foreheads together. Ragnar’s hands were hot under his shirt, just barely ghosting over the skin beneath the hem of it.

They were in a stalemate because Athelstan had them there, close, almost no space between them, but still he held Ragnar back. Ragnar made a noise low in his throat, and then he spoke, tilting his head to speak in Athelstan’s ear.

“I do not want to be ugly with you, but I am not afraid to be.” His mouth found Athelstan’s neck and stayed there, opening, lips brushing wetly across his pulse point while pressing the lines of his teeth into the skin underneath them.

“If this is ugly…” Athelstan fumbled the sentence, letting it die, letting himself feel Ragnar. Ragnar licked the place where his teeth had been, soothing the crooked row of edges he’d left, but then he leaned back. Athelstan tried to keep the space between them equidistant but Ragnar’s right hand rose to press against his chest, keeping him at bay.

“Yes, priest, what were you saying?” He asked, his left hand slipping lower down Athelstan’s back, settling at the line of his belt.

“If this is ugly, I want to know what hideous is.” He felt like an animal, saying something like that just to evoke a response from Ragnar that would make him _want,_ but there was a time and place for humanity, and if Athelstan had to be without it, he was thankful the time was limited to his subconscious.

Ragnar closed the space between them, his right hand joining his left, pressing Athelstan fully against him. He could feel that Ragnar was hard, much like himself, and it was intoxicating to know he had that affect on the man. A man like _that_ was so attracted to him the physical proof of it was present against the top of his thigh.

“To show you hideous, we would need to be alone, in a room with a bed, with plenty of time to spare. I wonder what sounds you would make for me, priest. I'll bet that no one has been between your legs before, have they?”

Athelstan woke up at that point. His sheets were damp; he was sweating like he’d been having a night terror and his erection strained against his briefs. The dream must have been a test from the Lord, had to have been. He knew he couldn’t lay a hand on himself -- that would be a definite expression of a lack of self control.

Having dreamt of Ragnar wasn’t a surprise but the way he had spoken was new. After spending most of his evening finding bible passages relevant to Ragnar and marking them in two new copies of the Gospel of John, spending the whole evening thinking of him, it made sense that his subconscious would grab a hold of the man.

Where did those words Ragnar said come from? Athelstan knew he had never encountered them before, and he felt the pit of his stomach drop as he extrapolated what that meant: his own morality was fracturing under the weight of a single event. He had dreamt that phrase up all on his own.

He had to see the man who’d said those things in his mind in less than four hours, as the digital clock on his nightstand displayed the time, a bright 7:50. Athelstan was bewildered at his body’s state. Now, knowing that the man at the end of the bar was an actual monster ( _Forty pounds of China White heroin, priest_ ) Athelstan assumed that the attraction would cease. His thoughts for Ragnar weren’t of a warm nature. He was afraid of Ragnar, afraid of his willingness to wreak havoc in the lives of others, and afraid of the way he could derail the future he’d had imagined for himself.

So why had his mind neglected all of this and instead made Ragnar the star of his night’s rest? The only answer Athelstan could see was that it was a test from the Lord. He never assumed acting _In persona Christi_ would be a walk in the park, far from it, but he didn’t think it would be this brutal. There was no mistake to be made, Athelstan had signed up for a life defined by his service to the Lord… This situation felt like more than that, it felt like a trial.

Nonetheless, Athelstan was determined to succeed. He rolled out of bed and walked blearily to the small bathroom that was connected to his bedroom. The cold of the tile under his feet was akin to dipping a toe into a pool; a miniscule taste of what was coming next. He pushed the shower curtain back and turned he dial, starting the flow of water. It was freezing, just what he needed, so he undressed and stepped in.

It was a shock, nearly painful, but its affect was almost immediate. He thought of the passages he had selected and resigned himself to speaking as minimally to Ragnar as possible. If the Lord was going to test him, he would rise to the occasion.

Monsignor Ecbert stepped into his room just as he was preparing to leave for the day.

“Father Athelstan, where are you going?” He asked, leaning against the doorframe. Athelstan smiled, because he knew the Monsignor would be shocked.

“Old Valhalla.” He said simply, because that was explanation enough. Monsignor Ecbert’s eyebrows shot up immediately.

“ _What_?” Shocked indeed. Athelstan picked up the two bibles he had prepared and put them into his messenger bag.

“I am just as surprised, Monsignor. Yesterday I was putting a collection of fliers up on the outside wall of the place when a man called Rollo caught me at it. He brought me inside for a talking to – well, no, he thought I was going to be beaten, I’m sure – but instead, the man who was supposed to deliver it asked if anyone could find salvation in the Lord’s path.”

Athelstan was rather excited to share his news, and as he spoke he missed the way one of Monsignor Ecbert’s hands had balled into a fist. He took a step further into Athelstan’s room before speaking his mind.

“Athelstan… You cannot _do something_ like that without notifying anyone. He could have murdered you, Athelstan. You could be dead, burned in a ditch somewhere. To people like those who congregate at Old Valhalla, you are nothing but a pious emblem of righteousness. I have half a mind to stop you from going back now because it sounds like a set-up. They may have set a trap for you, Athelstan, and you are willing to walk right into it.”

Athelstan felt himself pale at Monsignor Ecbert’s speech. Was taking Ragnar at his word a foolish act? He had seemed genuine, and truthfully Athelstan reasoned that their encounter at the bar was another thing to keep Ragnar from causing him grievous bodily injury.

“I do not think that I am walking into a trap, Monsignor. The Lord has given me his first test as a direct messenger from him in the form of this man, and I intend to come away successful.” He spoke in a quieter tone than the Monsignor, coming as close to the truth as he could without damning himself.

He watched as Monsignor Ecbert brought a hand to his face and pressed his pinkie and thumb into his temples.

“There is nothing more deadly than youthful hubris, Athelstan. You will take a cell phone with you when you go. One hour over there, and if you’re going to be a minute late, call immediately. I will go to the police if I do not hear from you.” His hand dropped back down to his side. “May God be with you, Athelstan.” He said, apparently having reconciled himself with the plan. 

"And also with you, Monsignor Ecbert," Athelstan responded. He waited about a minute after his superior had left before leaving the room himself and heading to the office to check out a cell phone. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with priesthood terminology and mythology... The real Athelstan was a Christian but the Catholic priesthood has terms that evoke a stronger response, I think. I just want it to be clear that I am doing this on purpose, and am not because I am a lazy researcher.


	4. Chapter 4

It was hard to put a name to the feeling Athelstan had as he walked up to the front door of Old Valhalla. He had just gotten off the phone with Monsignor Ecbert, letting him know to start timing the hour he had allotted. His words echoed in Athelstan’s head… This might literally be a fatal error, and he _was_ about to walk into it, as easy as anything in the world.

The door was warm from the mid-morning sun and he gave it a shove, remembering how heavy it had been yesterday. To his surprise, it didn’t give. The door was locked. If this was a trap, it wasn’t a very well orchestrated one. Athelstan paused for a moment, thinking this perhaps was a sign from the Lord as well. He wasn’t meant to die today, wasn’t meant to see Ragnar. Perhaps he was being rewarded for his good behavior earlier that morning.

To be able to say he had tried though, Athelstan felt he should at least knock to see if anyone was home, so to speak. He rapped on the door with his knuckles and waited.

Surprisingly enough, after a brief pause, he heard a lock mechanism engage. The door swung open, revealing Ragnar behind it. A wall of citrus smell hit Athelstan at the same time as the condition Ragnar was in did – he was shirtless and his well-built chest was tinged red. The only clothing he had on was a pair of ripped jeans slung low on his hips, not even socks. His forehead shone, and his eyes looked blue like robin’s eggs. He smiled brightly at the sight of the priest behind his door and Athelstan sunk his teeth into his bottom lip. The test continued.

“Athelstan!” Ragnar exclaimed, gesturing for him to come inside. “I have spent the morning washing and oiling the wood,” he said, an explanation for his current state. “I was not sure you would return, so I decided to keep myself busy.”

“You don’t pay someone to do it for you?” He asked as Ragnar walked behind the bar, grabbing a black tank top and pulling it over his head. He turned and looked at Athelstan like he was crazy.

“I built the tables and bar with my own two hands and the help of my brother. I would not trust anyone else to keep them in the state I deem acceptable.” It surprised Athelstan that Ragnar believed in hard work, done by hand. Perhaps he had the makings of a decent Christian hiding behind all of the darkness. He felt a swell of hope: maybe Ragnar was a block of marble that had yet to meet a proper chisel. Perhaps he was a _David_ , waiting to be revealed.  

“Truthfully, I would not have expected an answer like that from you. Also, you should know, if I say that I will do something then I will do it. A good Christian keeps his word.”

Ragnar stepped out from behind the bar and indicated for Athelstan to follow him down the length of a table.

“And tell me, Athelstan, you think you are a good Christian?” This was more like it, more like what he had expected, a dare disguised as a question.

“There is always an opportunity to improve one’s self, but I do believe that I am a good Christian.” Ragnar sat down on a leather stool and Athelstan sat down a seat away, placing his bag between them. Any amount of distance was better than none. Ragnar simply raised his eyebrows at Athelstan’s answer, a silent doubt at his words. “Since you seemed most curious about the concept of salvation and redemption through Christ, I selected passages for us to read that center around those topics.”

Athelstan pulled the two bibles out of his bag, handing one over to Ragnar. He held the book with a slight scowl, as though it were a physically distressing object, like it emitted a foul odor only he could smell.

“It won’t bite,” Athelstan said, and Ragnar looked at him with a glint in his eye.

“I think I would like it better if it did,” he said, setting his copy down on the table. He put his chin in his palms, looking like a bored teenager.

“You cannot read it if you are not holding it, Ragnar. You can open up to the first page I have marked.”

“I want you to read it to me, priest.” Ragnar said in a pleading tone. “Your voice was made to deliver the message of your lord.”

Athelstan didn’t mind that Ragnar asked him to read, however, that did not mean Ragnar could take on an entirely passive role.

“I have no qualms with reading to you, but you have to follow along if I do. Pick up your bible, Ragnar.” He waited until Ragnar did as he was told before picking up his own and opening it to the first verses he had selected.

“Yesterday you said you felt as though you could die any day, and I wanted to read a passage to you about those who die in the faith of the Lord. John 11:25-26, to be exact. ‘Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die. Do you believe this?”’”

Athelstan became aware that Ragnar had been watching him instead of reading as he posed the question, and he neglected to answer, so he asked it again.

“Do you believe in the power of the Lord, Ragnar?” Finally he got that Athelstan was done reading and asking him a question now instead.

“I believe in the power of man, Athelstan. I believe that if you want something done, you should do it yourself… or see that it gets done yourself. I built what I have from the ground up.” Ragnar was proud of what he had, even if what he had was organized destruction.

“And where do you think the power of man comes from?” Athelstan asked, trying to lead Ragnar back into actually answering his question.

“Desire,” Ragnar said simply. “Want. If you want something badly enough, if you do _truly_ desire it, you will do anything to make it happen.” He dropped one of his hands from his copy of the bible and let it fall onto the table near where Athelstan’s arms rested.

_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil._ Athelstan tried to latch onto that notion in order to ignore the obvious suggestive nature of Ragnar’s behavior and words. The thing was, he wondered if this was truly an evil thing. Ragnar was not a moral man by any stretch of the imagination. This was true. He was trying to tempt Athelstan, this was also true. However, it would not be temptation if something in it did not _appeal_ to Athelstan. He inhaled to the count of four and exhaled the same way, lifting his copy up, flipping through it, moving away from Ragnar’s roving hand.

This was going to be the slowest hour of his life.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these are so short, I'm working on making the next few parts 5k+ each!


	5. Chapter 5

Romans 10:9-10, 1 John 1:9, Daniel 9:9, Micah 7:18-19, Revelation 14:13, John 11:25-26. These were the verses Athelstan took Ragnar through during the majority of the hour, covering mercy (“You say your God is merciful but I know life to be anything but,” Ragnar said. “Life is relentless.”

“This is because you do not believe in Him, Ragnar. You do not allow yourself His mercy.”

“I think I cannot afford to believe in Him. I could not risk the chance that his idea of mercy is different than mine.”

“There’s no way you could possibly control everything, Ragnar. The things that happen do for a reason.” He heard the relevance to his current situation in his own words.), forgiveness and purification through Christ (“Even I think there are some things I have done that are not possible to forgive,” Ragnar didn’t look at Athelstan as he said it, looking down over his bible instead. “I think if I showed myself to your Lord he would not like what he saw.”

“Oh, Ragnar, no. As long as you are willing to repent, you will be forgiven. One of the glories of God is His capacity for clemency.” Ragnar looked up at Athelstan through his eyelashes and smiled in a small way. Hope against hope, maybe he was actually giving Ragnar some food for thought.), and the idea of dying in the Lord.

Ragnar didn’t hold back any doubt or distaste he had for religion and an expectation of morality but he also asked a lot of questions, keeping the conversation going. Athelstan had the feeling this might not be a total waste of time, that Ragnar’s curiousity might actually be based in something genuine, and not merely an attempt at finishing what he started at the bar.

Time passed relatively quickly, and before long it was about time for Athelstan to leave if he wanted to be back in accordance with Monsignor Ecbert’s wishes.

“Ragnar, I must confess that it is time for me to go.” Athelstan said, closing his bible and setting it down.

“Already? I do not think we have been through more than ten total pages.” Ragnar said, scoffing at the notion that their meeting would be over. Athelstan smiled at the man in front of him, deciding that at this point he seemed more of an oddity than pure evil.

“You seem like an eager student, Ragnar, I must admit I am surprised. But I told one of my superiors I would be back about an hour after I left and that time is fast approaching.” Ragnar’s eyes narrowed momentarily at Athelstan.

“Did you tell them where you were going?” He asked lightly, letting his bible fall closed while leaning forward on his elbow.

“Yes, thus the reason for the punctual nature of our visit. He thought you might kill me today,” Athelstan told Ragnar like a secret, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“Why are you smiling about that, priest? If you thought your life was in peril you should have stayed away.” Ragnar sounded miffed as well as slightly concerned for Athelstan’s sense of self-preservation.

"No, _he_  thought you would murder me. I asked the Lord about you last night and He did not indicate you would do such a thing. May I show you the customary way we end a time like this, spent talking and thinking of God?”

 Ragnar looked like he wanted to say more on the subject at hand but he nodded. Athelstan brought his hand to his face, moving his fingers in three exes over his forehead, lips, and chest in succession. He moved to clasp his hands in prayer but Ragnar smiled and grabbed his wrist, pausing the movement.

 "Wait, priest, teach me what you just did," Ragnar lightened his touch. Athelstan looked at the way his tan fingers punctuated the pale skin underneath, the way Ragnar let them linger there. He hadn’t even thought of teaching Ragnar the sign of the cross though the gesture was embedded in his own prayer routine.

 He extracted his hand from Ragnar’s grip and began to explain.

 “That is called _signum crucis_ : the sign of the cross. A priest typically performs the sign of the cross over the faces of congregants as they receive communion.” Athelstan paused, waiting for Ragnar’s almost certainly impending question.

 “You do this to _every_ single person?” He asked in astonishment, stroking his beard, a charicature of himself. Then he abruptly stopped. “You will do it to me now! It will be like practice, if I ever come to see you preach.”

 The mental image of Ragnar with his towering figure and studded motorcycle jacket sitting a pew made Athelstan smile.

 “Sure, why not.” He said. He and Ragnar turned on their stools so they faced each other. Ragnar grabbed his bag off of the seat and set it on the table, out of the way. His eyes were bright and expectant.

 Athelstan raised his right hand, touching his thumb to his index and middle finger.  He reached across the distance between them and drew an x over Ragnar’s forhead, barely brushing his skin.

 “May Christ’s words be on your mind,” he began, then lowered his hand to Ragnar’s mouth and drew an x there too, hovering just over his parted lips.

 “On your lips,” he continued. Ragnar’s gaze was boring holes into him as he lowered his hand a final time, just slightly to the left of center of Ragnar’s chest.

 “And in your heart,” Athelstan said as he made the last x, skimming the edge of his nail over black material of Ragnar’s shirt. He saw Ragnar’s eyes drop to watch as he did so.

 “Cross my heart and hope to die,” Ragnar said in an almost-whisper, his voice crackly in his throat. Athelstan smiled at his referencing the colloquialism and drew his hand back into his own personal space.

 “This is where that phrase comes from,” he confirmed Ragnar’s thought process. “But we’re not quite done yet.” He tapped Ragnar’s chin with his thumb, a period on the sentence of the blessing. “Amen.”

 “Amen,” Ragnar repeated. So he had some knowledge of tradition, Athelstan surmised.

 “Very good, Ragnar. Now you know what to expect if you should ever find yourself at communion.” The idea was no less absurd thinking of it the second time around. He stood up from the barstool and put his bible back in his bag. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper and set it on the table in front of Ragnar, who hadn’t moved.

“Just in case you found any of this remotely interesting, I made a list of other verses you could read yourself. I would be happy to come back over to discuss them with you; I’ll help you in whatever way I can to forge a relationship with the Lord.” 

 Ragnar picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it, looking down the list Athelstan made. He looked up from it, nodding at Athelstan.

 “Tomorrow when you come back, will you be able to stay later? I want more than an hour with you, priest.”

 Athelstan’s stomach felt like it spasmed at Ragnar’s words. They sounded so like what Ragnar had said in his dream that he had slight déjà vu. With the way today’s visit had gone, he really wouldn’t mind staying longer tomorrow but he doubted he would be allowed to.

 “Unfortunately, that is not up to me. As you know, the man in charge – Monsignor Ecbert – believes I am courting danger by coming here.”

 Ragnar got off of his stool and started walking Athelstan to the door.

 “What if I pick you up tomorrow, hmm? What if I introduce myself to your… Monsieur? Come to him and tell him that I am searching for God and that you are helping me to find him?”  The way Ragnar said it made it sound like that was not what they were actually doing, like that was a cover story.

 “Is that the truth?” Athelstan asked him. Ragnar leaned back against the door, tilting his head from side to side, considering it.

 “It can be,” he finally said.  Athelstan felt himself flush at Ragnar’s answer. He sighed and shrugged.

 “I cannot promise that you showing up at my church won’t have the exact opposite of the affect you desire,” he said. Ragnar pushed open the door then, letting the sun stream in. He leaned out into it, his tan skin glowing in the sun.

 “I will try anyway,” he said. “Are you allowed to give me a hug, priest?” He asked, squinting his eyes as he looked out across the parking lot, vacant except for the sun-bleached church truck.

 Athelstan considered it, considered that Ragnar had – all things considered – been very good. Athelstan himself had been very good too, kept their conversation on religion alone, paid attention to the time and was going to be out the door soon enough that Monsignor Ecbert would approve.

 “I think so,” Athelstan replied, and Ragnar stepped back into the bar and let the door fall shut behind him. His teeth worried at his lip as he opened his arms for Athelstan, who shrugged his shoulder so that his bag fell to the floor before he stepped into them.

 Ragnar’s hands were hesitant on his lower back, but once Athelstan wound his arms around Ragnar’s neck he allowed them to settle. Ragnar smelled of diesel and oil and that citrus he’d been using to clean and his shoulders and chest felt solid and strong.

 “Thank you for coming back today,” he said softly in Athelstan’s ear. “I did not think you would.” He tightened his grasp around Athelstan’s waist for a moment before starting to pull away. Athelstan was surprised, wasn’t ready to let go, though he let his arms fall away.

 “Are you truly going to pick me up tomorrow?” He asked, not choosing to repeat the sentiment he had at the beginning (A good Christian keeps his word). Ragnar looked back at him as he shouldered the door open again.

 “Yes, I was planning on it,” He said, letting Athelstan step out past him.

 “Do you know where my church is?” Athelstan turned back to ask, and Ragnar half-smiled back.

 “Jesus saves, priest. I still have one of your fliers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the long parts on their way!!


	6. Chapter 6

Monsignor Ecbert was surprised when Athelstan knocked on the door of his office with three minutes to spare. When they sat down to talk about the experience, he listened with rapt attention, letting Athelstan get the whole story out before speaking himself.

“My goodness, Father, it must have gone well. I don’t think a smile has left your mouth since you walked into my office. This… Ragnar? Was that his name? He seems like he might actually be considering a life in God’s path?”

Taking note of the Monsignor’s first comment, Athelstan neuteralized his expression the best he could before responding. Nodding, he explained the situation tentatively.

“He does not seem to believe that Christ would deign to save his soul even if he repents; that seems to be the biggest obstacle in the way of his acceptance that I can see at the moment. I am hopeful, however, that if I build my case with direct evidence from scripture that Ragnar might begin to understand that His capacity for forgiveness is one of His greatest miracles.”

Monsignor smiled at Athelstan, unable to contain his pride.

“You have done well, Father Athelstan. I am impressed with the level of finesse and attention to detail you are applying to the situation,” he paused, tapping his fingers on his desk, considering something. “How would you feel about leading mass tonight? I would like you to speak on the themes and scripture you are utilizing with this potential convert.”

Athelstan was sure his eyes were as big as saucers as the words registered in his head, for he had not been offered this opportunity yet and it was an important moment. Trying not to show joy like a complete child, Athelstan grinned at Monsignor Ecbert.

“Yes, absolutely, thank you for the opportunity to do so. I promise I will not let you down neither tonight nor with Ragnar.” Athelstan kept it short and sweet to avoid rambling like a loon. Hearing the name leave his lips again, he realized he should tell Monsignor Ecbert he might be receiving a visitor tomorrow.

“Speaking of,” he began, half-way unsure how best to announce what Ragnar planned. “Today at the end of my visit, he asked me if I could stay longer the next time we met. I told him that you feared he would harm me, that I probably couldn’t, and he may or may not be coming to meet you tomorrow to try to convince you otherwise.”

Monsignor sat back in his chair, adjusting the collar of his robe. Athelstan’s feelings of triumph receded quickly as the silence after his statement stretched on.

“Would you feel _safe_ in his presence for longer than an hour?” He asked doubtfully. Even with the way Athelstan described how today went, his continued trepidation was clear.

“Well, Monsignor, I was nervous about him when I initially met him. Before meeting today, I prayed and asked if I was putting myself in danger by associating with him. I wouldn’t have left if had received any other confirmation of the notion, but I did not. You will meet him tomorrow, hopefully, and I think you will understand he is different than you assume.”

Monsignor huffed a bit, pursing his lips.

“Athelstan, he may be different than _you_ assume. Old Valhalla’s reputation is not baseless, and you yourself said he was its owner. I’m not fear-mongering; I am just trying to be realistic.”

 _And a little fear-mongering_ , Athelstan couldn’t help from thinking.

“Well, have you had any known associates of Old Valhalla come to introduce themselves to you before?” He asked, knowing what the answer would be.

“Well, no, bu—“ Athelstan cut Monsignor Ecbert off.

“Then maybe he _is_ different,” he said with a touch of defiance. Monsignor Ecbert frowned at his disrespectful tone.

“Or maybe he is just clever. I am only trying to say that you don’t know him, Athelstan. Do not take offense. I will speak with him if he shows up tomorrow, of course, but I can’t say it will change my mind.”

Athelstan hated the feeling of being spoken to like a child. He began to collect his thoughts to form a calmly-spoken retort, but Monsignor Ecbert spoke again before he could.

“However, if you do feel comfortable allotting more time to his passage into Christ, I will not stop you from it. The only condition is that you have to text me every half hour, as well as answer if I should call.”

They would be slightly cumbersome rules to follow, but unexpectedly, the Monsignor acquiesced. Athelstan was equal parts surprised and grateful. 

"Uh, well, um, thank you, Monsignor. I have no issue doing whatever it takes for you to feel safe allowing me to go. Ragnar will be here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning if he keeps his word." 

 Monsignor Ecbert inclined his head. 

 "I don't know that I hope he does. Peace be with you, Father Athelstan." 

 "And also with you, Monsignor Ecbert." 

 That night, the church was almost entirely full with twenty minutes to spare before the service. Athelstan held his copy of the bible that matched Ragnar’s, but he did not open it. He knew what he would say.

It was exhilarating. He began with an anecdote about his work with Ragnar, focusing on how he couldn’t wrap his mind around the enormity of Christ’s love or his divine ability to cleanse sin. Athelstan read through verses and led the people of his congregation in celebration songs, trying to capture the absolutely joyous nature of Christ.

He felt pure elation looking down over the aisles, seeing men and women and children all rejoicing together. He hoped that for the hour they were there, they felt closer to God.

The only time his mind wandered at all was during communion, while blessing parishioners with the sign of the cross. _Cross my heart and hope to die_ , he could see Ragnar’s mouth form the words like he was before Athelstan in that very moment.

While readying for bed, Athelstan decided that if tomorrow went as planned he would let Ragnar set the course for their conversation. If he had done the reading Athelstan assigned, he would have plenty of questions.

Having nothing to prepare, he retired to bed early.

He dreamt of Ragnar again. These were episodes of pure horror – choking on rust-colored desert dust with Ragnar covered in blood, exsanguinating at his feet. Then they were in Old Valhalla, looking over scripture, when Ragnar suddenly paled and crumpled to the ground, revealing an anonymous murderer with a pistol pointed at him. In a cemetery, standing in front of an unmarked grave, listening to a murder of crows fly away overhead.

Panic consumed Athelstan and he woke up in a fright. It took some time to leave the headspace of it, and he couldn’t get rid of the sight of Ragnar’s face, red with blood. His vacant, lifeless eyes were a stark contrast against the splatter.

Athelstan tried to think logically about what his subconscious’s view of Ragnar meant. Sex and death weren’t things that crossed his mind frequently, and they made an odd combination thematically. He wondered what the spectacle of Ragnar’s death meant and why it had him feeling _so_ out of sorts.

A little before ten, both Athelstan and Monsignor Ecbert found themselves in the lobby, waiting to see if Ragnar would show or not. Both time and silence stretched on, and Athelstan began to doubt if things would go as planned.

But then they heard it – the thunder of a motorcycle, fast approaching. Their eyes were the curve of road that came out from around the bottom of the hill. Then there he was, looking like a regular Hell's Angel. He cut through the middle of the parking lot and came to a stop by the handicap parking spots. Athelstan was at the door before he realized it; his hand on the brass handle.

"Why don't you step outside to receive him?" Monsignor asked, smoothing over Athelstan's eagerness. He nodded curtly to the Monsignor and opened glass paneled door, walking down the steps to the curb of the parking lot.

 Ragnar removed his motorcycle helmet, revealing that his hair was neatly brushed and parted and pushed back behind his ears. He smiled broadly at Athelstan as he unzipped his motorcycle jacket. Athelstan had a split-second flashback to his dreams of the night prior, the way Ragnar’s dead and unmoving eyes looked against the blood on his face. He felt a surge of appreciation for the biker alive and well before him.

 Ragnar’s choice of wardrobe made an immediate impression upon Athelstan. He wore a white collared shirt, buttoned up and tucked into dark pants, and the only thing that belayed his usual dress were his motorcycle boots… It was a complete surprise seeing him dressed like this. The crisp white line of his collar emphasized his all-encompassing natural masculine beauty, as great and terrible as a wildfire.

 “You look… um, well. Good. Formal.” Athelstan said to Ragnar as he bent over the compartment on the side of his bike and laid his jacket inside. Standing back up, he looked somewhat sheepish.

 “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said with a measure of false bravado, looking up at the doors of the church Athelstan had just exited from.

 “Of course, I really have no idea, but I think this right now is as close to the feeling of a stereotypical first date as I will ever know,” Athelstan admitted, quick and nervous. The innocence and sincerity of the statement had him blushing so hard he could feel it. Ragnar’s eyes were on him then, studying him. He stepped forward, up on the curb, and in a few quick strides he was by Athelstan’s side. He tentatively put a hand between Athelstan’s shoulder blades.

 “That would not be true if you did not want it to be,” Ragnar spoke quietly, letting his hand fall a bit lower, then completely, off of Athelstan’s back. “Let us go and meet your Monsignor,” he said, and together they walked up the steps.

 If Athelstan had to pick one word to describe the whole experience, it would be awkward. Not even awkward just once, either. Awkward a thousand times over. Once they stepped inside, Monsignor Ecbert was nowhere to be found. Eventually they knocked on the door of his office.

 Monsignor Ecbert acted like the villain in a badly written super hero movie, steepling his fingers together and using a strange low and threatening voice in an effort to intimidate Ragnar. Athelstan could not remember exactly what was said between the three of them – secondhand embarrassment would not allow for the memory to record -- only that at one point Monsignor Ecbert asked him to leave so he could speak to Ragnar alone.

 Eventually though, what seemed like an hour later, the door opened. Ragnar stepped out, smiling, and Athelstan mirrored his expression immediately. He knew they would get to leave together today. He and Ragnar walked out of the church in silence, but once the doors were safely closed behind them, Ragnar smiled conspiratorially at Athelstan.

 “We’re free,” he said, faux-punching Athelstan in the arm. Athelstan turned to him, unable to keep the smile from his features, finding Ragnar’s grin just as broad.

 “I guess so,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what ya'll are waiting for and I THINK next chapter is when it'll happen. I think.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was such a long time coming! I have five thousand more words to post, I just wanted to not do an absurdly long 8k word chapter. I have to edit the scenes of a Certain Nature and then I'll post the rest. I have a mix of songs I listened to on repeat while writing them that I think I'm going to post as well!

Athelstan made a point not to ask Ragnar what he had spoken about with Monsignor Ecbert, fearing the truth of their conversation. He was terrified his proclivities were obvious and that was what they had talked about, though his rational mind told him if Ecbert knew of Athelstan’s nature he wouldn’t have kept him around, and certainly not let him become a priest.

“He told me that I was a wolf and that you were a sheep,” Ragnar said as they approached his bike, as though he had read Athelstan’s mind. He couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from turning up as he did so, and Athelstan took some offense at it.

“And what did you say to him?” He asked, crossing his arms over his chest. Ragnar reached out his hand to Athelstan, palm up, as though he were waiting for something. Athelstan was puzzled by this, staring at it. Ragnar could not expect Athelstan to hold hands with him _in front_ of the church? Monsignor Ecbert was almost certainly watching the two of them.

Ragnar shook his head slightly and reached out further, grabbing the strap of Athelstan’s bag off of his shoulder. Oh. He opened the compartment he had stowed his jacket and helmet in.

“I told him that he’s guilty of underestimating you vastly, and that he was just about spot on with his assessment of me.” Ragnar lifted the helmet and jacket out, handing the jacket over to Athelstan. “I told him I do not think I deserve your attention, and that I do not think I will be saved, but that you have managed to instill a modicum of hope within me regardless.”

Athelstan took the jacket from Ragnar so that he could place the bag in the newly vacant compartment. He did not know how to react to Ragnar’s words, as honest and kind as they were.

“I did not give you my jacket simply to hold, priest. Put it on,” he instructed, filling the silence Athelstan created. Deciding not to address Ragnar’s previous statement, he objected.

“You are basically twice my size, it will look ridiculous.” Ragnar smiled as he pulled the leather latch of the side-storage shut, having put Athelstan’s bag safely inside it.

“I want to see you in it. And besides, it can get cold when traveling at high speeds.” He looked down at the short sleeves of Athelstan’s starched black clerical button-up, reinforcing his point. “Is it safe to assume you have never ridden a motorcycle before?”

Athelstan had been in the process of slipping the jacket on, but he had to stop in order to keep himself from rolling his eyes at Ragnar’s question. Ragnar caught his show of exasperation.

“Perhaps that _is_ a stupid thing to ask. You are going to sit behind me, Athelstan, and wrap your arms around my waist as tight as you possibly can.” He held out the helmet in Athelstan’s direction as well.

Athelstan felt an itch creep up the back of his neck, and he wanted to whip around and look to see if anyone could hear them. It felt a little dangerous to entertain the notion of any kind of physicality with Ragnar again, but at least the reason behind it was valid and entirely excusable.

He pulled the jacket on the rest of the way, feeling that the leather wasn’t warm to the touch as he had remembered it. A peculiar sense of wistfulness swept over him, a quiet sadness over the knowledge he wouldn’t know the warmth Ragnar was capable of again.

Before getting lost in his thoughts entirely, Athelstan shook himself and tried to address the fit issues of the jacket to the best of his ability, rolling the cuffs of the sleeves over twice more. Ragnar’s eyes betrayed his feelings about his jacket on Athelstan, something between pleasure and amusement. He reached out with his empty hand and straightened the left portion of the lapel.

“It looks good on you, priest. I might have to get you a leather jacket of your own. Now go on, take this helmet so we can leave.” Ragnar, apparently having adjusted the collar of his jacket on Athelstan’s neck to his satisfaction, now pushed the helmet toward Athelstan with both hands.

“Your money would be wasted; I would have no purpose for it. Neither a place for it nor a reason to wear it. Why don’t you want the helmet for yourself?” Athelstan asked, still neglecting to take it from Ragnar, who shrugged his indifference.

“You would wear it when you are with me. I do not need the helmet and you much more precious cargo than I. Besides, I am confident that I will get us from point A to point B safely.”  

Reluctantly, Athelstan took the helmet from Ragnar.

“Your life is no more valuable than mine, Ragnar,” He said, watching as he swung a leg over the bench of the motorcycle and took a seat. Athelstan was unsure of how to go about sitting behind him, the nature of the beast innately awkward.

“I will not bite,” Ragnar said, and Athelstan surmised he was mocking the way he had said the same to Ragnar over the bible. _I think I would like it better if it did_ , he heard Ragnar’s reply in his head. _I think I would like you better if you did,_ his mind echoed in an inappropriate response.

He pulled the helmet down over his head and then stepped forward, lifting his right leg over the very end of the seat. It was tall enough off of the ground that he had to go up on his toes to balance over it.

Ragnar looked over his shoulder and the corner of his mouth curled up. He spoke loud enough so that Athelstan could hear him clearly through the insulation of the helmet.

“You will fall off if that is where you choose to sit,” he pointed out. The physical proximity of the situation completely unavoidable, Athelstan allowed himself to move up the seat of the cycle. The distance between himself and Ragnar was minute, now. He reached out around Ragnar’s waist and braced his hands on his sides, just barely grasping him.

“I would sit closer still if I were you, little priest. You must tighten your grip on me as well. Don’t be afraid, I am not made of porcelain, I will not break if you give me a squeeze.”

Athelstan sighed, scooting forward as much as he could without their hips touching. His hands wrapped around Ragnar’s front more now, and he gripped him tightly. The place where his palms pressed against the biker’s white dress shirt was warm; warm like Ragnar had been that night at the bar. His wistfulness dwindled as his fingertips dug into the hard muscle beneath them and his mind shifted gears, concentrating instead on avoiding entertaining the memories of the experience they had shared.

“Do you have anything else to say to me? Any questions? Once I turn the ignition it will be too loud for us to talk.” Suddenly, Athelstan felt a pang of nervousness. Riding a motorcycle was something he never imagined for himself, but here he was on the back of one, his arms around Ragnar’s waist.

“I’m ready,” he said, and Ragnar wasted no time firing up the engine, and it rumbled and roared its life in Athelstan’s ears even though he was wearing the helmet. He had no idea how Ragnar could stand the noise, it was like thunder.

Athelstan didn’t have much time to consider the loudness because then they were moving, slowly at first, and he realized what Ragnar meant by sitting closer. Physics meant that weight at the end of a moving vehicle was victim to gravity – the weight wants to leave the moving object. After nearly falling off the end of the bike, he pressed flush against Ragnar’s back, and the tips of his fingers brushed, making a circle around his waist.

Once Ragnar seemed to sense that Athelstan was holding on properly he started gaining speed. Athelstan was glad he could not see over Ragnar’s back because the way the road and scenery rushed by in the periphery of his vision made him dizzy enough.

After getting over the initial shock of hurtling along, in the open air, completely unprotected should disaster strike, the sensation that struck Athelstan the hardest was the endless vibration. He could feel the power of the engine between his legs and thrumming up through the rest of his body, like each molecule was quivering against those around it, like his very DNA was being jostled, shaken, deconstructed and reconstructed.

It was a mode of transportation like no other and Ragnar was a skillful biker, it was obvious in the way he wove in and out of the vehicles on the highway, the way he cut corners easy and smooth. If Athelstan had to ride a motorcycle with anyone, he was glad that it was Ragnar.

Just as he had relaxed into the experience, it was over. Old Valhalla came into view and Ragnar slowed down, turning around the corner to the alley behind the building. They came to a stop and Ragnar pushed his kickstand down. It took Athelstan a moment to disengage, and he didn’t loosen his grip on Ragnar’s waist until Ragnar laid a shockingly cold hand over one of his own.

“You were holding on for dear life,” Ragnar said as Athelstan stood, sliding his hand out from under Ragnar’s. Withdrawing his hand made him aware of how something so simple affected him, made his heart speed up. He pulled the helmet up off of his head, and it was as though he had been underwater and resurfaced, topside once again.

“Forgive me for feeling apprehensive about death on two wheels,” Athelstan said, but he smiled around the words. Ragnar dismounted and took the helmet from Athelstan.

“Did we not arrive safely?” He asked, watching as Athelstan got off of the bike as well. “I told you it would be fine,” his tone braggart in nature.

Athelstan moved to unzip the leather jacket, to hand that over as well.

“ _No_ ,” Ragnar said with a sudden intensity. It sounded like an order. “You can hang it up inside.” The force in his voice was lesser, as though he realized the way he must have come off.

Athelstan wondered why it mattered that he leave the jacket on… why it mattered so much that Ragnar implored him to do so. He looked down at it, the way it hung long on his torso, much shorter than Ragnar’s. The jacket covered his shirt, the collared shirt that was in a sense his uniform now, and it dawned on him.

 _There must be people inside who cannot know I am a priest_. _He wants to save me the strife_.

“Alright,” Athelstan agreed. Ragnar nodded and looked down the alley. He clapped a hand between Athelstan’s shoulder blades.

“Let’s go on then,” he said. Athelstan allowed himself to be guided by Ragnar. They walked right past a pair of heavy metal doors, along the alley, around the corner to the front of the building. Ragnar took his hand away from Athelstan’s back only to reach out to open the great wooden door of his bar.

It was then that Athelstan realized his own hands were empty.

“My bag, I forgot my bag,” he said, surprised at himself, that he had forgotten his bible and the materials for their study today. The reason he was here. “I’ll go get it,” he was already turning around to do so, but Ragnar stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No, I was the one who hid it from view. Out of sight, out of mind? I will go.” He smiled briefly, and before Athelstan could say a word otherwise, Ragnar was on his way; his long strides taking him quickly back in the direction they had just come from.

 As he watched Ragnar’s retreating figure he wondered exactly why a man like him had decided to be so… _nice_ to him. Other than the fact that this was somewhat involuntary -- _Do you really think a church here would keep a priest they knew was queer?_ – Ragnar was entirely civil toward him.

He felt his cheeks redden as he thought of a reason why, possibly _the_ reason why… That their acquaintance had been borne on the night of Athelstan’s lapse in sense, in sanity. The memory of it was brutally vivid, the way Ragnar had crashed against him like a damned wave, the way he had wanted to drown. But they had discussed it, had spoken about the impossibility of the thing due to his true calling, as a man of the cloth.

Ragnar was fast, turning the corner with Athelstan’s messenger bag in hand less than thirty seconds after he’d gone. As he held it out, his eyes scanned over Athelstan’s features.

“Has something happened?” He asked, his brow furrowing slightly. Athelstan hated that his thoughts read so clearly on his face, hated that Ragnar was attentive enough to notice it.

“Nope!” He said, smiling as brightly as he could manage. He took his bag from Ragnar. “Shall we?” He gestured toward the doors, hoping to avoid further inquiries.

Ragnar studied him for a moment longer before nodding. He opened the door for Athelstan, who stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the sunlight outside to the dark interior of the bar, but then he saw that one of the booths was occupied.

Six or seven people were seated there, all men save for one blonde woman. A few of them turned their heads to see who had arrived. Athelstan recognized a few of the faces from his first day at Old Valhalla, the two called Floki and Rollo. Floki had turned to look over his shoulder, and apparently, he recognized Athelstan too. His lip curled into a sneer, until Ragnar walked in behind Athelstan, letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Who do we have here?” The blonde woman called out to them. “I see he’s in your jacket, Ragnar. Are you going to take him for a ride?” Some of the men at the table snickered, and Athelstan thought her question redundant, as Ragnar had his helmet under his arm.

“He’s a pretty little priest,” Floki informed her, and she let out a sharp laugh. Ragnar stepped forward, and Athelstan could see his jaw set, his eyes narrowing.

“Enough.” His voice was quiet, dangerous, and the table’s mirth died immediately. “This is Athelstan, Lagertha, and he is a priest. Another word from any of you and we will have words of our own later.”

There was an implication in the way he spoke that Athelstan was both grateful for as well as weary of; these glimpses of the man Ragnar could be when he wasn’t around were not pleasant. It was a different feeling to hear it on his behalf instead of directed toward him, though.

When there was no response from the table and Floki had turned back around, Ragnar looked to Athelstan, motioning for him to follow.

“You are not to interrupt our meeting under any circumstances,” Ragnar said as they walked across the bar to the hallway where Ragnar’s office was. As they turned down it, chatter at the table began once again.

“They will not bother you again, Athelstan. I apologize for their rudeness.” Ragnar slowed until they were walking side by side.

“Thank you,” he said, unsure of how else to respond. To his surprise, they walked past the door marked ‘boss', and Ragnar came to a stop in front of one nearer to the end of the hallway.

“I hope you do not mind a less formal setting,” Ragnar said as he opened the door. “My office is for business matters, and you are not business.”

He let Athelstan go in ahead of him, and he was surprised to see the size of the room – a little less than half that of the main room of the bar – and what it held within. A massive unmade bed on a low platform with white sheets and several pillows took up one corner, two large armchairs were situated around a small cluttered table more toward the middle of the room, a somewhat-filled bookshelf was pushed up against the wall behind them, a worn brown leather couch sat beside it, and a fridge was just to the left of the door.

“Do you live here?” Athelstan asked him, somewhat shocked that a man of such means – if his figures about the money he made running drugs were to be believed – would live so… sparsely.

Ragnar let out a laugh as he shut the door behind him, and Athelstan heard the click of the lock turning into place.

“No, no. There are simply some times when sleep calls out to me and I have no desire to go back to my place.” He set his motorcycle helmet on top of the fridge, opened it up, took out a bottle of water, and offered it to Athelstan. “There are other times when sleeping it off is the best option.” He smiled, and Athelstan smiled as he took the water. At least Ragnar doesn’t drink and drive.

“Go on and make yourself comfortable, take my jacket off, I have a lot of questions for you today.”

Athelstan chose an armchair as his and set his bottle of water down on it. He unzipped the jacket and took it off, watching as Ragnar took a bottle of water for himself. He grabbed the jacket from Athelstan and threw it on the bed before reaching over to the side closest to the wall, and grabbed his copy of the bible, of all things.

“A little nighttime reading?” Athelstan asked him, teasing a little as he sat in his chair.

“Yes,” Ragnar said simply, ignoring the humor in his voice. Athelstan was relatively astounded that Ragnar did seem to be taking this seriously. Athelstan had found himself surprised at Ragnar’s actions several times. This was a trend now; of Athelstan assuming he would do a certain thing based on his perception of Ragnar, and Ragnar subverting those expectations.

Watching Ragnar as he took a seat in the empty chair next to his, he decided that perhaps he had been a little condemnatory about the man. He would have to actively stop himself from doing the same thing again.

“Well, let’s get started then. What questions do you have for me?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> playlist in preparation for chapter 8 (technically chapter 9 because of this post oops) which will be posted tomorrow ;)

**[AND I KNOW WHAT HANDS ARE FOR,AND I'D LIKE TO HELP MYSELF](http://8tracks.com/americandy/and-i-know-what-hands-are-for-and-i-d-like-to-help-myself)  
**

1 ** _toes_ \- glass animals**  
_and all i ever want is breaking me apart_  
_i said to the thing that i once was_

2 **_handsome devil_ (smiths cover) - parenthetical girls**  
_and i would like to give you_  
_what i think you're asking for_  
_you handsome devil_

3 **_drive pt 1_ \- ben khan**  
_let's crash_  
_go up in flames_  
_do you wanna come with me?_

4 **_heaven_ \- bitter:sweet**  
_everyone dreams about something_  
_heaven can be anything_

5 **_warm shadow_ \- fink**  
_warm shadow_  
_won't you cast yourself on me?_

6 **_huggin & kissin_ \- big black delta**  
_pushing and shoving_  
_hugging and kissing_  
_all of the time_  
_all over again_

7 **_savage_ \- ben khan**  
_i was baptised before the gods_  
_but i'm still holding flaws_  
_i'm still holding yours_  
_will the wind be beneath my wings_  
_will the water wash over my sins_  
_until this is over_

8 **_drink you sober_ \- bitter:sweet**  
_oh dear, look what you've done_  
_you've made a mess of me_  
_and i don't want to clean up_

9 **_i wanna be yours_ \- arctic monkeys**  
_if you like your coffee hot_  
_let me be your coffee pot_  
_you call the shots, babe_  
_i just wanna be yours_


	9. Chapter 9

He removed his own bible from his bag and set it down on the floor next to him. Before answering, Ragnar took his boots off and crossed his legs beneath him.

“As I read through the passages you assigned about salvation through the lord, they all mentioned that to do so you must repent. Nearly every single thing I read mentioned repenting, repent repent repent. But not one of them explained what that meant. What does it take to repent? What does it mean?” He fanned through the pages, from beginning to end, a movement that revealed his true impatience with the lack of explanation. It was a good question.

“That’s a fair question. Repenting can be done in a number of ways, and can involve several steps. However, before you can repent, you must confess.” Ragnar’s eyes widened.

“To the authorities? I will never be a Christian if that is what it takes.” He looked down at the bible in his hands and then back up at Athelstan, who was having trouble fighting a grin.

“No, not to the authorities. In all Christian churches you will find a small sort of stand-alone wooden room. There are two doors in it and a wall with a slat dividing it in half internally. It’s called a confessional, and a priest sits on one side, and the person wishing to confess sits in the other. The things a priest hears in a confessional are sacred and confidential, and it is an invaluable resource for the human soul… The opportunity to freely discuss sin is to no longer have to shoulder the weight of it entirely alone.” Athelstan knew his explanation was long-winded but Ragnar listened intently.

“There is no situation in which a priest might share what he has heard behind the wall?” Ragnar asked, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

“No. There is no sin great enough to break the trust of God and servant that exists in confessional, and the priest acts as a conduit of Christ when he is receiving confessions.” Athelstan’s eyes dropped as he spoke and he watched as Ragnar rolled his sleeves up as far as they would go over his sizable forearms.

“I feel like that cannot be true. What sort of things do you confess? What do people say to you?” Athelstan refocused and considered Ragnar’s question.

“Well, it’s really a case by case basis. Each person carries his or her own sins at personal levels of severity. One person might confess they had told a lie – I hear that from children mostly, but some devout adults – and others have weightier issues, like adultery or acts of violence… the most basic theme the topic of confession can be broken down into is any behavior that is against the word of the Lord, against decency and morality.”

Ragnar looked as though he still did not believe what Athelstan was telling him.

“And what about you? Do priests confess?” He asked, apparently having accepted the concept for the sake of his curiosity.

“Yes, we do.” Ragnar let his bible rest in his lap, and he leaned forward in his chair, excited by the notion.

“Who do you confess to? Do priests confess to other priests? What would you confess, Athelstan?” He was thankful Ragnar asked him several questions at once. Hopefully he would be able to sidestep the question of what he himself would confess.

“It depends. If there is an individual around who ranks higher than a priest, he is the one to receive a priest’s confession. If not, a fellow priest is an acceptable outlet to confess to.” Athelstan desperately wanted that to be the end of Ragnar’s questions about this particular topic.

“Well… what would you confess? What have you confessed? I think I need an example.”  No such luck. In reality, Athelstan had avoided confessing to either Monsignor Ecbert or any of his fellows the sin he had committed… the sin he continued to entertain. Though he had just finished telling Ragnar there was no act that could break the trust between God and servant, he felt certain that if he told of the way he had strayed – the way his thoughts and dreams continued to stray – there would certainly be repercussions.

“Even if I gave you an example of something I had confessed it would be irrelevant, because your sins are surely different than mine. Is there anything you have done that you feel regret over? Something that turns your stomach at night; that lives in your conscience? Those are the things you would confess.” Athelstan chose that moment to busy himself with his water, unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. Ragnar watched him intently, bringing a hand up to stroke his beard. He looked as though he were playing a game of chess, debating which piece to move next.

Instead of speaking again, he reached out to the table and grabbed a silver case. He opened it and revealed a neat row of cigarettes inside.

“Do you mind?” He asked Athelstan. Really, he did mind – he found smoking atrocious – but this was Ragnar’s domain.

“Go ahead.” He said, waving a hand dismissively. Ragnar removed a cigarette for himself before holding the case out in Athelstan’s direction.

“No, thank you, I’ve never had a cigarette and I never will.” He tried to say it as impartially as possible, but Ragnar laughed.

“And you still wouldn’t if you had one of these.” He set the silver case back down on the table and put the thing that was a cigarette but wasn’t between his lips. He then arched his hips up so he could root around in his right pocket. He took a moment, but then he withdrew his hand, having found a lighter. Settling back down in his seat, the flame burst forth and he lit the non-cigarette.

He closed his eyes as he took a drag, opening them as he blew the smoke out. It was then Athelstan understood what Ragnar had meant. The odor of the smoke was thick, some pungent mix between coffee beans and a skunk’s stink. It was marijuana, what Ragnar had was a joint. He had heard the addicts in the church’s program describe it many times.

“That’s marijuana,” Athelstan said, somewhat proud of himself for being not completely unknowledgeable. Ragnar raised an eyebrow as he took another long drag off the joint.

“Very good!” He said hoarsely, holding the smoke in. Athelstan watched his lips as they pursed while he exhaled a large white cloud. Ragnar unfolded his legs and stretched them out in front of him now, crossing his legs at the ankles, so that he could relax more easily into his chair.

“How did you know? I can’t imagine a good boy like you has… pardon me, partaken before.” _A good boy like me_. Ragnar knew Athelstan wasn’t always that good of a boy, he knew better than anyone. He decided to play it up a little bit.

“Many eastern religions incorporated marijuana into their practices, it’s not unheard of.” Ragnar smiled at him, grinned like a Buddha. 

“Ah, but Christianity is not an Eastern religion, is it? You’ve never inhaled a single breath of it, and I would place money on that fact.” He tapped the ash off the end of the joint onto the table before taking another drag. Athelstan sighed at him, feeling a little hazy, perhaps irritated by the smoke.

“Drug use is not a Christian activity, Ragnar.” He said plainly. Ragnar straightened up somewhat, dropping his pose of extreme leisure.

“This is not a drug, it is a plant. Besides, a lot of the things I do are not Christian activities. From what you’ve said though, so long as I confess and repent, there’s still hope.” He paused for a long moment. “I don’t believe you ever told me what it means to repent, either. We got caught up on confession.”

“ _You_ got caught up on confession,” Athelstan corrected. “However, sometimes confession itself can be an act of repentance. Sometimes all repentance has to be is merely feeling truly regretful about the sinful action.”

Ragnar took another hit and held it in as he considered Athelstan’s words. It seemed as though a thought had struck him, and he exhaled the smoke quickly and waved it away with his hand.

“You never told me about something you have confessed, something you would confess. Just one, just give me one example.”

For all of the times Athelstan had learned about the negative effects of marijuana, a consistent bullet point had been a lack of short term memory. It appeared Ragnar did not experience that issue _at all_.

He was silent as he contemplated what to tell Ragnar. He did not want to make up a lie, lying was not something he did and he would not start now. There was an issue that he would confess, that he should have confessed already… but telling Ragnar of it would steer the conversation in a direction Athelstan was not sure it could come back from.

“I can think of something you have confessed,” Ragnar said quietly, looking at the joint between his fingers. Athelstan knew immediately what he was referring to; his heart skipped a beat as he realized what Ragnar was going to say.

“Days ago, I remember…” He looked up from his fingers to Athelstan, held his gaze as he continued. “I remember you said that I had led you into lust, a cardinal sin.”  Athelstan felt like a deer in headlights but he couldn’t look away, couldn’t move. Some slick sick feeling -- a duplicitous snake of fear and lust -- slithered up his throat. “Is that not something you confessed?”

Athelstan faltered, opened his mouth to respond and closed it again. Ragnar watched as he did so, held Athelstan transfixed beneath his stare a beat longer before dropping his eyes back down to the joint, which had gone out.

“Was that not true?” He asked, and Athelstan responded without thinking.

“You know it was,” he said, letting out a breath he didn’t know that he had been holding in.

“Yes. I could say the same about you. Perhaps that will be my first confession.” He rolled the joint lightly between his fingers. “Must I come to the church in order to confess? Are you not a priest? Could I do it here and now?”

The air in the space separating them felt thick and hard to breathe… Athelstan knew the words that Ragnar was saying to him were having a physical effect on him, a visible affect on him.

It was maddening to feel an earthly desire in direct and total opposition with his vows. He had never had any qualms or doubts about the idea of celibacy until that night they met… For the first time in his life, he wished he had chosen a different career path. For the first time in his life, he questioned his choice, wishing that the extremely basic human need for physical affection wasn’t something he had to deprive himself of.

The conflict Athelstan felt over Ragnar was affecting him greatly, so much so that it was affecting his ability to do his job. If it weren’t an issue, if Ragnar wasn’t an issue for him, he would be able to hear Ragnar’s confession hear and now.

When Athelstan didn’t reply immediately, Ragnar looked up from his fingers once more. Athelstan watched the way his eyes drifted across his face and down to his lips, lingering there.

“Do you still think about it?” He asked in a voice barely more than a whisper.

“Dreams, I dream about it. About you. Us.” Athelstan said, as something inside of him fractured. Ragnar’s eyes widened at this answer, at Athelstan’s own confession. “I haven’t been able to repent… haven’t been able to confess, to ask for forgiveness, because I don’t want it. I… I want more.”

Ragnar sat up, sat forward in his chair. It was as though he wanted to reach out to Athelstan, and Athelstan wished that he would; feeling unable to initiate such a thing himself. He saw that his own words had urged Ragnar forward, so he continued to speak, hoping that he would close the distance between them if he heard enough.

“Never in my life have I needed any sort of fulfillment that my relationship with the Lord could not provide… Until you. It feels like I’m being torn in half, and it would not be this way if I had chosen any other path in life. It feels… cruel—“

At that very moment, the church cell phone rang. A muffled, chimed version of ‘Ode to Joy’ interrupted his thoughts, interrupted the way he had been in the midst of giving himself over. It was incredibly sobering.

He stood up and reached for his bag that he’d left by the side of his chair and rifled through it with shaking hands. Upon finding it he was unsurprised to find that of course, caller ID said ECBERT. He took a step past Ragnar and turned around, unable to look at him as he answered.

“Hello Monsignor, I know I haven’t texted you, I apologize.”  He heard Monsignor huff on the other end of the line and he prepared to be chastised.

“You had one condition, Athelstan. One. You have no idea the hesitation I felt as I watched you travel off on the back of that… Barbarian’s bike. I wondered if I was sending you off to your death.” As Monsignor Ecbert spoke, Athelstan felt Ragnar grab his unoccupied hand by the wrist.

He turned around, unable to do anything besides watch as Ragnar guided his hand to the side of his own face, curving it around his cheek and jaw, his touch on Athelstan’s hand feather-light. It was an unexpectedly intimate thing, to be holding Ragnar like that, and Monsignor Ecbert’s words blurred in the periphery of his focus. The skin beneath his fingers was warm and Ragnar’s beard was soft. He turned his head so that his lips pressed into Athelstan’s palm. He wanted those lips to touch him elsewhere, everywhere.

“Athelstan? Are you there?” He could barely hear the Monsignor as he watched Ragnar fold his hand and brush his lips over each knuckle.

“Yes,” Athelstan replied – the bare minimum of a response.

“Are you safe?” Monsignor Ecbert asked.

“Yes,” Athelstan answered, hoping that his questions would be over soon. The church and Monsignor seemed like ghosts looming at the other end of the phone, and Ragnar was alive and warm-blooded here and now.

They locked eyes as he extended Athelstan’s fingers again, bringing the pads of them to his lips now, and Athelstan thought of the joint from earlier… he felt like he too had been set aflame by Ragnar. Anticipation bubbled just under the surface of his skin and each time Ragnar kissed his fingers it grew exponentially.

“Will you text me in an hour?” Ecbert asked, and Athelstan sensed they were reaching the end of their conversation, thank God.

“Yes. I apologize for my negligence in meeting your requirements,” he said, attempting to quell Monsignor Ecbert’s fears as entirely as he could. Outside of a single text an hour later, he did not want to devote any more thought to him or the church. That thing that Ragnar had fractured – no, that had fractured because of him, because of what Athelstan wanted from him -- was his identity… From that of a man of the cloth to just that of a man.

“Alright Athelstan,” Ecbert paused, and Athelstan could hear his sigh. “I expect you to be prompt. Peace be with you.” Athelstan dropped his head back in relief at the phone call finally coming to an end. He felt the bite of the irony of Ecbert’s parting words, that what he had found, what he was standing on the precipice of, was anything but peace. Not in the sense that Ecbert would think of, at least. Not in the sense of peace that Athelstan had imagined for the majority of his life. _O the times, they are a-changing._

“And also with you,” he said, waiting to hear Ecbert’s line go dead. Once it did, he looked back down to Ragnar, who held his hand in stasis against his mouth. He tossed his phone on the chair he had sat on before the call and brought the hand that had held it to the opposite side of Ragnar’s face, trailing it along his jaw before brushing it through his hair, pushing it behind his ear. Ragnar closed his eyes at the gesture.

He opened them as he brought Athelstan’s hand from his mouth down, letting it go entirely. That was no good, he brought it up to the other side of Ragnar’s face, doing nothing to calm the desire he felt to keep the man before him beneath his fingers. Outside that desire to touch Ragnar, he realized he had no idea _how_ to touch Ragnar.

He smiled when Athelstan did so, and covered both of Athelstan’s hands with his own. Then he took them both off his person, bringing them down to Athelstan’s sides once more, letting them go once he did so.

“We have more to discuss, priest. I want you, to show you the way one body can make another feel, _believe me,_ but we have things to discuss. Why don’t you sit back down.”

His words – the way one body can make another feel – made the hair on the back of Athelstan’s neck stand up and goosebumps rise on his arms. He did not understand what there could possibly be to discuss… he looked down at his feet, realizing the way his trousers poorly hid the way Ragnar’s words had aroused him. He felt childish, like an excited little boy being told to go to his seat.

“Do not worry, this will be short, and the things we will do afterwards will be sweet. I have but one more question about the bible that I think is relevant to you, to this situation.”

He looked at Ragnar sideways, but turned and made his way back to his chair anyway. He’d gone literally his whole entire life without needs like he had recently developed being fulfilled, he could go another twenty minutes, another hour, another day if it meant Ragnar was on the other side of it.

He pushed the cell phone that hand landed in the middle of the seat down to the side, uncaring as it wedged between the crack of the cushion and the frame of the chair. He did not speak, only watched Ragnar expectantly. The man seemed as though he could not keep the smile from his face, it remained as he reached for the half-gone joint and lighter he had placed on the table, still apparent in the corners of his lips as he put it between them and lit it once more.

He took a hit and held it in, looking at the trail of smoke drifting away from the smoldering cherry. As he exhaled he looked from the joint to Athelstan.

“Are you sure you do not want to try?” He said, holding it out in his direction.

Ten minutes ago he was relatively certain he did not want to, just as ten minutes ago he was relatively certain he was unwilling to acquiesce to his more basic desires. Ragnar seemed to take his silence for what it was, consideration, as he offered up a different idea.

“There is a way you could without ever taking it into your hands. Regardless, most people do not feel the effect of cannabis the first time they try it. Would you like me to explain?”

Feeling very strange, strangely open to previously forbidden experiences, Athelstan nodded. Ragnar shifted his chair so he was a bit closer as well as directly facing Athelstan.

“I would inhale, and then you would cup your hand like this,” he used his empty hand to make an almost-closed fist, save a small ‘o’ shaped opening that ran the length of it. “and I would put my mouth to the end, and you would place yours to the other, and breath in as I breathed out. Does that sound like something you would like to do?”

Athelstan considered a few things: that marijuana _was_ a plant that other religions considered invaluable to their processes, that no one would know but himself and Ragnar, and that the act of breathing in smoke directly from the man struck him as erotic.

“You won’t tell?” Athelstan was surprised at his own voice, rough and dark from somewhere low. Ragnar looked at him as though the tone of Athelstan’s voice surprised him as well. He raised an eyebrow at Athelstan, and he could see the way Ragnar’s eyes fell to his lips once more.

“Who would I have to tell?” He asked, and Athelstan nodded, smiling slowly. That answer seemed to be the perfect summation of this thing between them. There was an unfamiliar degree of safety he felt with Ragnar… that whatever they did get up to would be for no one but themselves.

“I want to try,” Athelstan said in a voice more like his own. Ragnar nodded and got up from his chair, coming to kneel before Athelstan, placing his empty hand on the top of his thigh. He felt highly aware of Ragnar’s hand, their close proximity, and not much else.

“Are you ready?” Ragnar asked him, looking up into his eyes, spreading his fingers across the span of Athelstan’s leg.

“Yes,” he breathed, forming his hand into the shape Ragnar had shown him, his other gripping the arm of his chair.

Ragnar brought up the short remaining length of the joint up to his lips, pinching it between his thumb and index finger once more. The inhale he took seemed to last an eternity, and he held Athelstan’s gaze the entire time. Then he lowered his hand, leaning forward.

Athelstan’s legs fell apart, allowing Ragnar closer, and he brought his cupped hand up to his mouth. He felt the prickle of Ragnar’s beard and the softness of his lips, and then the gentle opening of them. He began to breathe in, and Ragnar began to exhale, leaning closer as he did so. His chest pressed against Athelstan’s knees as he did, delivering the smoke slowly.

At first it was an easy thing to do, to take in what Ragnar gave him, but then he felt the rough ache of the smoke in his lungs; a tickle he could only stand a few moments longer before he had to lean back and attempt to cough it away. Ragnar’s hand traveled in from the top of his thigh to his waist, and he turned his head in order to quickly expense the rest of the hit before turning his attention back to Athelstan, who could not get the itch from his throat.

“Are you okay?” He asked, the picture of concern. His other hand came to rest on Athelstan’s other thigh and he squeezed it with as many fingers as he could, considering the joint. Athelstan nodded, though he continued to cough and sputter. Ragnar looked around until he located Athelstan’s bottle of water before taking the cap off and handing it to him. He drank with fervor, and finally, he found some degree of relief from the itch.

Satisfied that Athelstan was no longer in a state of peril, Ragnar sat back on his heels, and took the last hit of the joint. He discarded it in an ash tray on the table and sat back in his seat.

“How on earth can you hold that smoke in your lungs?” Athelstan asked, confounded at Ragnar’s ability to tolerate such an unpleasant sensation.

“Practice, like anything else. For having virgin lungs you did remarkably well, though. Do you feel anything?” He asked, a glint of amusement in his eye. Athelstan sat back in his chair, looking around the room.

“What am I supposed to feel?” He asked, feeling… something. Something odd, something new. He smiled at the strangeness of it. He smiled at Ragnar too. The object of his decidedly unholy affection. “Don’t you have more questions for me? Let’s get this show on the road, as they say.”

“We have all the time in the world, Athelstan. However, you are correct.” He picked up his bible and flipped to a page toward the middle of the tome.

“As I read last night, I found several references to… The one whom he adored? A man, if I’m understanding correctly.”

For the umpteenth time that day, Ragnar had completely surpassed Athelstan’s expectations of him.

“Of course, the beloved disciple, John the Evangelist.” He paused, deciding to be frank with Ragnar about his surprise at his continued tenacity. “I must say, the depth of your study has blown me away. Your reading has obviously gone far past the passages I assigned to you, and I am impressed.” Ragnar took Athelstan’s praise bashfully, looking down at the book in his lap. He bit his lip as he set his sights back on Athelstan.

“When I am passionate about something I do not approach it with anything less than my entire being. I read as much as I could, initially in the interest of understanding you, the things that drive you and made you choose the life you did—“

“So it is not Christianity you are passionate about, then.” Athelstan interrupted him. The blood rushed to his face again at the intimation in Ragnar’s words. Ragnar leaned back, considering Athelstan’s point.

“I am interested in salvation, in the way you seem to suggest it is possible for me though you have some idea of the wrongs I am responsible for. However, I would be lying if I did not say the initial driving force in my interest was my… preoccupation with you. I wanted to inform myself on this thing that gives you such fervor, but then I found fascination in the mythos of Christ. You could not imagine my surprise when I came across the references to Jesus’s relationship with John… the language used to describe it is something I did not see elsewhere in what I managed to read.”

“Are you suggesting that His relationship with John was something… sinful?” Athelstan’s immediate reaction was that of reproach.

“No, not at all, although that might be because I have… an alternative definition of sin. The words used to describe John and Jesus, ‘adoration’, ‘beloved’… these do not carry a negative connotation. If Jesus had a man whom he adored… then why shouldn’t you?” Ragnar set his bible down on the table as though the argument he presented was unerring fact.

“I strongly doubt that the sort of… adoration I would like to express to you is the same that John did unto Jesus.” Athelstan almost laughed at the notion, but Ragnar looked at him rather sternly.

“This brings me to my final question. How can you reconcile your beliefs with this? With us? I want you, priest, but not if it will be the last time I see you.”

Athelstan did not know how to answer Ragnar’s question because he did not have an answer to Ragnar’s question. Hearing it posed so obviously was somewhat overwhelming… He rubbed at his face with the palms of his hands.

“See? I do not want to do anything that will cause you undue stress.”  

Athelstan stood up out of his chair and turned away from Ragnar, massaging his temples. It was hard to organize the thoughts in his head but he had to try, had to communicate.

He spun on the balls of his feet to try to do just that, only to find Ragnar right behind him, a single hand extended.

“I… I do not want to touch you if you don’t want me to.” He said, hesitant, so doubtful.

“You don’t understand, you really don’t understand. The thing that has been causing me the most turmoil is being unable _to_ touch you. I have never known anything like it, never wanted anything like this as long as I’ve lived.” Athelstan stepped forward, into Ragnar’s space again, and something literally settled inside of him. Some internal need that he hadn’t even known existed, had never acknowledged, _sighed_ inside of him.

Ragnar reached out tentatively and placed his hands on Athelstan’s hips with extreme delicacy.

“I don’t know… I don’t know how I’m going to work this out with my relationship with the Lord but… I do know that I won’t be able to keep myself away from you. I feel… It feels like magnetism. This is the start of something, not the end.” He put his hands on Ragnar’s chest and splayed his fingers. They stood like that for a time, touching each other just barely, and Athelstan realized he could feel the steady thrum of Ragnar’s heartbeat.

He watched as the apples of Ragnar’s cheeks raised and his lips curved in a different kind of smile, small and honest and beautiful, just for him. He extended his arms and wound them around Ragnar’s neck, trying as best he could to show him the same affection.

Ragnar circled his arms fully around Athelstan’s waist, pulling him close. He bowed his head, pressed a kiss to Athelstan’s temple and then stayed like that. It was such a quiet, uncomplicated moment of warmth. Athelstan could not believe that this was something he had been willing to divest himself of.  Thinking of another thing he had formerly been willing to keep from himself – of several things – he leaned back so that his face was just in front of Ragnar’s.

He seemed to sense what Athelstan was thinking, what he desired, and he closed the minute distance between them. The touch of their lips was almost nothing, as though anything more than a slight depression would set off cataclysmic events.

Consequences be damned, Athelstan wanted more, so much more, and the fact that he could have it was dizzying. He curled one of his hands around Ragnar’s neck and parted his lips, deepening the kiss. Ragnar responded in the most delicious way, pulling Athelstan’s hips even closer, making a noise of appreciation. It was easy to give himself to someone who was _so_ happy to have him. The slide of their mouths was just as relentless and electric as it had been the night at the bar.

Ragnar pulled away slightly and began to kiss at the side of Athelstan’s face and along his jaw, coming to a stop at the skin just beside his ear.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve dreamt of,” he purred, punctuating his request with another kiss. In the midst of his ardor, Athelstan felt a pang of embarrassment. Ragnar drug his mouth down his neck, offering a sharp scrape of his teeth, and that embarrassment was quickly swallowed by lust.

“This is… um, this is where my inexperience… it’s the bar, always, but there’s no preamble, just you and me pressed against each other, and I can feel… I can feel your hard… ah… your thickness against my thigh.” It felt like such a vulgar admission but Ragnar hummed against his throat.

“You mean like this?” He whispered, and angled his hips so that Athelstan could feel him. He’s just as big and hot as he dreamt, literally radiating heat that’s tangible even through their clothes. Athelstan reached down between them and ran his palm along Ragnar’s length, shocked at the way it affects him. He stopped kissing at the hollow of Athelstan’s throat, his hands stilled low on his back, and his eyes fell shut for a brief moment.

Athelstan realized the way Ragnar had made himself smaller so that he could touch him more easily, but as he continued to feel him shamelessly like that, his back straightened.

“I am surprised you are so eager,” he said against Athelstan’s cheek, otherwise unmoving.

Somewhat obsessed with the way he is allowed to touch Ragnar, he was fevered in his motions, clutching at the back of his neck, breathing into the crook of it.

“How could I not be? You’re so… you’re… I don’t know what I want, but I know that I do want,” He stammered out. Ragnar seemed to come back to himself, he got up close in Athelstan’s ear again and let his hands drift lower on his back, over the swell of his ass.

“Can I tell you what I would like to do with you,” he said instead of truly asked. His breath came in warm puffs against Athelstan’s neck, and one of his hands drifted from its place to Athelstan’s lower stomach. “What I would like to do to you,” he added, and then his hand drifted down even lower. He began to touch Athelstan in kind, though his movement was slower, more specific. It was the first time anyone had done anything like that to Athelstan and it felt _so good_.

“Mmmm, feel your nice… hard… cock,” He made sure to move his hand in time with his words. “I want to take your clothes off, lie between your legs, and take you in my mouth. Does that sound like something you would like?”  

The idea of it… the idea of someone, the idea of Ragnar wanting to do _that_ seemed improbable. It sounded like filth, lovely filth spilling out of Ragnar’s mouth and he did want it.

He had stopped working his hand over Ragnar when Ragnar had started his own ministrations… his hand had paused so that his thumb and the half of his hand devoted to its motion were to one side and the rest of his fingers bracketed the other, the majority of his palm curved over the base of his hardness.

Looking down at what Ragnar was doing, touching him so openly – feeling the way his movements were pointed, paying special attention to certain areas… Ragnar was adept at this, and he wondered about the other areas he had skills in.

“Are you sure you want… are you sure you would want to… with your mouth?” They were breathing in each other’s air now, lips hovering just a hair’s breadth apart. Athelstan felt incapacitated at the wealth of sensations, Ragnar’s warmth and his closeness and his hands and his words. It was just like his dreams, but at the same time entirely different. It was real.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure. There is no part of you that I do not want to taste,” Ragnar said, and their mouths brushed. “Do you want me to?” His focus was concentrated entirely on Athelstan’s front now, one of his hands resting on Athelstan’s stomach, the other incessantly working over him.

“Yes,” He answered, breathing out hard. “I want to see you, I want to feel your skin, feel you too.”

“Of course,” Ragnar said on an exhale; then their mouths met again. It was less of a kiss, something hungrier, open mouthed and trying to devour each other. The heat that passed between them was extreme, and standing felt like a hard task to manage when Athelstan wanted to devote all of his energy to simply experiencing Ragnar.

He pulled away from the kiss in order to catch his breath.

“Do you want to lie down?” Ragnar asked in his airspace in the interim. He turned to look at the bed in the corner, then grimaced. “This is not the bed I imagined getting you in first…not high enough, not enough pillows, the sheets do not have nearly a high enough thread count… but it is what is available to us.”

“Hearing you say things like that… that you imagined getting me into bed… you should stop if you do not want me to spontaneously combust.” Ragnar’s grimace quickly changed into a smile and he stopped his process of feeling Athelstan’s hardness through his pants.

“Let us not waste any time then. I will take you home to my bed another day. Come with me.” With that, he stepped out in front of Athelstan and to his side, and Athelstan regretted the absence of his presence immediately. It must have shown across his face, because Ragnar leaned into him, kissing his neck again.

“Do not worry, this is momentary,” he said against the skin beneath his mouth. His hand closest to Athelstan found his lower back once more and together they walked to the bed. He turned Athelstan around with little effort and then pushed him, gently.

Falling into Ragnar’s bed and looking up at him, stood between the spread of his knees, was an absolute joy. Ragnar’s eyes roamed over him and he started touching himself as Athelstan had been. He started to do the same, watching Ragnar, but then he felt a bit of annoyance at the fact that they weren’t… touching each other. All Athelstan had was a taste of physical affection and Ragnar had promised so much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rest will be posted either later tonight or tomorrow. It just got too long, I had to choose a point to cut it. sorry!!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super late night posting so forgive me if the unbeta'dness is really apparent!! also i love your comments so thank you for those! eta 9/5 i'll be on a small hiatus until next week or possibly earlier depending on how quickly i finish this other piece of writing that is going to be published!! i might sneak another small chapter in before then though because i do love this story.

“I want to see you,” was what Athelstan said first; it seemed like a good place to start in order to move things along. Instantly Ragnar stopped caressing himself and began to unbutton his shirt. Athelstan felt a bit like a child at Christmas, he didn’t want someone else opening up his present. He sat up in bed, eye-level with Ragnar’s waist now. “No, let me.”

Ragnar looked up from his task with a lascivious smile.

“Only if you allow me the same privilege.” Athelstan got to his knees and knocked Ragnar’s hands out of the way.

“Anything you want,” he said as he began to undo the buttons himself. One of Ragnar’s hands cupped the back of his head and tilted his face up. He leaned down and kissed Athelstan with voracity, like the statement had induced a new bloom of lust inside of him.

“Anything you want,” he repeated into Ragnar’s lips. He felt the sound that Ragnar made as well as heard it; a low, long groan. Ragnar leaned back up from Athelstan’s face but kept his hand at the back of his head, at the nape of his neck.

“You have a dangerous mouth, Athelstan,” he said. “You could make a man do anything for you, I think.” For once, Athelstan did not feel his lack of experience quite so acutely. He saw that he had a grasp on Ragnar too and the knowledge brought a smile to his face.

He resumed unbuttoning Ragnar’s shirt, and was rather disappointed to find a thin, ribbed cotton undershirt beneath. As he got lower, almost to the metal button of Ragnar’s pants, he opened the shirt up, revealing his chest.

Through the lightweight material of the shirt, Athelstan could see the prominent points of his nipples. He yanked the tails of the oxford out of Ragnar’s pants and swept both of his hands up Ragnar’s chest, pointedly running his fingers over his nipples as he did so. It was curious to see the various ways Ragnar’s body displayed his arousal.

He pushed the sleeves of Ragnar’s shirt down over his arms, trailing his hands over his expansive muscles as he did so. Ragnar let go of Athelstan so that the shirt could come all the way off, and it fell to the floor behind him. He watched Athelstan fixedly as he pushed his hands underneath his remaining shirt.

There was a lot of information to process for Athelstan as he exposed Ragnar’s bare skin and he tried his best to acknowledge all of it. With two fingers he followed the trail of hair that went from Ragnar’s navel and down below the line of his pants. At the same time, he used his other hand to draw the shirt up enough to expose Ragnar’s chest.

He was so fit; a specimen of extreme physical health, and Athelstan was reminded of the way he had questioned if Ragnar was perhaps a _David_ … Like this, feeling his flat stomach and round pecs, the way the muscle of his shoulders slanted up to meet the line of his neck, the ‘v’ of the bones of his hips… There was no mistaking it, he was a _David_. Michelangelo or Da Vinci and their ilk would have fallen over themselves to use him as a living reference for any one of their works.

Athelstan pushed Ragnar’s shirt up until he was met with the resistance of his underarms.

“Is it alright with you if I…” Ragnar trailed off, grabbing at the bunched up material, though he waited to pull it off over his head until he heard Athelstan’s response.

“Please,” Athelstan said, and Ragnar made quick work of taking it off, flinging it blindly into the room behind him.

Looking up at Ragnar’s torso up close, he could see that faint pale pink marks of healed injuries peppered it. He touched each he found with the tips of his fingers, then looked up to Ragnar.

“What are these?” He asked, feeling a particularly rough line that was just below his ribcage.

“Badges of survival,” Ragnar answered with a shrug as he fingered the collar of Athelstan’s shirt. The reply alarmed Athelstan… these were marks of pain, things he had been through, things that had been done to him.

He leaned forward and brushed his mouth across the one below Ragnar’s ribs, then ducked his head to do the same to the small circle a little to the lower left of his belly button, and then did the same to the line that went along the curve of the bone of his hip. Ragnar’s hand went from Athelstan’s collar to his hair, he dug his fingers in, and Athelstan could see the goose bumps rise across his arms and the sides of his body.

He looked up at Ragnar, saw the way he was staring down with dark eyes, that he was biting the inside of his cheek. They held eye contact as Athelstan pulled back from Ragnar and found the button of his pants, held it as he undid that button. Athelstan could not manage to maintain it as he slowly pulled Ragnar’s zipper down, instead wanting to see what lied below. He was surprised to find that Ragnar was not wearing anything underneath, that the zipper revealed his pubic hair instead. He was careful as he unzipped it the rest of the way, over the swell Ragnar’s hardness. The peek of that part of him made him somewhat nervous; he had never seen another man in that state.

With a deep breath, he pulled Ragnar’s pants down over his thighs. His manhood was… an impressive display, to say the least. It stood at a hard angle away from his body, and it was flushed a much darker color than the rest of his tan skin. As Athelstan gawked, a bead of moisture developed at the end of it. Without thinking, Athelstan reached out to touch Ragnar. He swiped his index finger over the tip of it; felt the hot wetness spread across the pad of it. He looked back up to Ragnar’s face as he then ran his fingers down the length, just getting a feel for this part of him.

Ragnar looked incredibly tense, his jaw was set and his eyes were wide as he watched, somewhat wild. Athelstan realized what he must look like, red and wrecked, still in his clerical outfit, tentatively stroking his hardness.

“I think it is my turn,” Ragnar said suddenly, pushing Athelstan’s hand away and leaning over him, pushing him down onto his back. He took his trousers off the rest of the way and stepped out of them, circling a hand around the base of himself as he looked down over Athelstan. His likeness to a nude crafted by one of the old masters was so severe it was absurd; he was like a man from another time.

“I can hardly look at you, so curious about what you do not know, so keen to abandon your innocence for me.” He leaned down to grab his leather jacket off the bed and their bodies were perilously close in the instant before he stood back and threw it to the floor. Athelstan thought about what Ragnar had just said, about what that said concerning his moral fiber.

“Do you think less of me?” He asked. Ragnar, who had grabbed Athelstan’s ankle and was in the process of removing his shoe, froze. He regarded Athelstan with a solemn look.

“Hear me now, listen carefully. That will never be possible. You are… the holiest thing I have ever known. I only meant that it… It seems like a miracle, that you are here before me like this. I can hardly look at you like… the way it is hard to stare directly at the sun. You are full of a light that I do not encounter in a life like mine.” His words were beautiful, like poetry to Athelstan’s ears.

“Do you understand? I need to know that you understand.” He pleaded with Athelsan, who elevated himself on his elbows.

“I do, Ragnar, I do. It saddens me that you feel as though there is no light in your life though… And I am glad that you feel I provide it. You are not… you are not someone who deserves to live in darkness.” Ragnar sighed at Athelstan’s confirmation in understanding. He returned his concentration to taking his shoes off, successfully freeing one of his feet.

“It is what I have chosen.” He said, grabbing Athelstan’s other ankle and doing the same thing. Once both shoes were off, he got on the bed too, between Athelstan’s legs. He scooted back on the bed to give Ragnar some space, and sat up. Having a naked man before him was a heady thing, and he swallowed thickly as he looked down Ragnar’s body, appreciating his masculinity. 

“May I?” He asked, reaching for Athelstan’s collar. He nodded, and Ragnar grasped the white tab. It came away easily, and Ragnar looked at the small piece of plastic with surprise.

“I did not imagine it to be this small,” he said, placing it on the floor next to the bed.

“It used to be a device to prevent chafing of a higher collar… But we don’t wear those collars anymore. It is for aesthetic instead.” Athelstan explained, but he did not know if Ragnar was listening, as he had begun to unbutton his shirt.

“There are so many buttons… I want to rip this off of you and listen to them scatter on the floor.” While an act of impatience brought about by lust did strike Athelstan the right way, he would have a hard time explaining it to Monsignor Ecbert. He laughed as he thought of it… there was no excuse that would sound valid enough to explain such a thing.

“I want you to; the degree of your desire appeals to me heavily, but I must return to the church eventually. Please don’t,” he said, and so Ragnar worked on his buttons as fast as he could instead. He wore a white t-shirt underneath his black clerical shirt, as was typical. Ragnar made a noise of frustration upon seeing it, though he finally came to the last button on his shirt.

“I just want to see your skin, get my mouth on your skin,” he said with a touch of exasperation. Athelstan lifted up off of his hands so that he could remove his black shirt entirely. Ragnar made to throw it behind him too, but Athelstan grabbed his arm.

“Patience is a virtue,” he said. “I cannot go back with a wrinkled shirt, just lay it on the floor by the bed.” Ragnar huffed at yet another obstacle between himself and Athelstan’s nakedness, but he did as he was asked. He pulled Athelstan’s shirt up from where it was tucked in his pants, and kept pulling. Athelstan raised his arms and Ragnar helped it over his head, then set it by the side of the bed as well.

Athelstan felt insecure about the softer edges of his body compared to the well-defined, hard shapes that made up Ragnar. He looked at his own body unhappily, but Ragnar acted as though he had just opened a chest of gold.

His eyes scoured Athelstan’s physique and his hands followed the paths his eyes took.

“Beautiful, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, dipping his head, mouthing at the line of his collar bone, then down to his nipple, taking it between his teeth briefly. Athelstan made an involuntary noise at the feeling, a gasp. Ragnar smiled and trailed his mouth across Athelstan’s chest, leaving a wet, shiny path where he’d been, and repeated the action on his other nipple.

“I cannot wait to discover all of the things you like, Athelstan,” he said against his skin, following the motion of his chest as his breath quickened. He started to move lower, dragging his mouth down the line of the center of his rib cage, down to his navel. Athelstan tangled his fingers in Ragnar’s hair, unable to speak with anticipation of what would happen next.

Ragnar took his time, pressing real, slow kisses, one after the other, down to Athelstan’s pants. Athelstan looked over Ragnar’s bowed body, saw the knots of his spine stick up through his skin. He was such an imposing figure in everyday life but here he was, vulnerable and hunched over Athelstan. Ragnar was willing to abandon his tough exterior completely when he was with Athelstan and there was something extremely valuable in that.

Then Ragnar popped the button on his jeans, and Athelstan was struck by a different kind of value.

“I guessed that you would be a briefs kind of man and I was right,” he said smugly, unzipping Athelstan’s pants. He pulled them down unceremoniously, and his expression quickly shifted to one of delight.

“I see you are very excited,” He said, pointing out the dampness in the cloth of Athelstan’s underwear. Ragnar moved so Athelstan could bring his legs together, and then he pulled his pants off completely, laying them by the side of the bed with a great deal less care than he had his shirts. Athelstan opened his legs so that Ragnar could return to the spot he had just vacated, and he sighed when he turned back and saw Athelstan like that, ready for him.

He lay on his stomach in the space Athelstan created for him and ran his hands up Athelstan’s legs.

“Look at you, look at your pale skin, like milk. Cream. I want to drink you up,” Ragnar said, and he moved up Athelstan’s body to kiss him. His hardness rubbed along Athelstan’s through his underwear as their mouths met… it was utterly lewd and Athelstan enjoyed it deeply.

“I want to suck your cock, but I like kissing you so much I do not know if I can bare to take my mouth away from yours. Should I make the sacrifice?” He spoke his words into Athelstan’s open mouth, and Athelstan ran his hands up and down Ragnar’s arms.

“Yes,” he moaned, wanting what Ragnar had described. _Suck your cock_ , those were the words he used. He wanted Ragnar to do that... wanted that obscene thing.

“Alright,” Ragnar said, pressing kisses down Athelstan’s throat. “Your body is made for this,” he whispered as he continued on his path down Athelstan’s body, following the same route he had taken earlier. “For pleasure,” he added on. He wanted to cover as much of Athelstan’s skin with his mouth as possible, it seemed.

Once he became level with Athelstan’s hardness again, he did not hesitate, only leaned forward and pressed his lips against the wet fabric over the tip of it. He laved at the fabric there until it was soaked through with his saliva. The sensation of it, of Ragnar licking at him like that, was satisfying at an animal level.   

He made a noise, something between a hum and the word yes, caught in his throat.

“I can taste you through your fruit of the loom,” he mumbled against Athelstan, loud enough that he could hear. “The salt of your desire,” he said.

His tone was teasing but Athelstan was a mess over his words, he rolled his head back into the sheets, baring his neck, unable to look at Ragnar anymore.

“Do you want me to take them off?” Ragnar asked, smoothing his hands up and down Athelstan’s thighs, pausing to mouth along his length. Athelstan nodded rapidly.

“I can’t hear you,” Ragnar said, and he glanced up Athelstan’s upper body. “Oh no, this won’t do. I want you to watch me,” he said pointedly.

With a great deal of effort, Athelstan propped himself up on his elbows again. As a reward for good behavior, Ragnar moved up and away for a final time, and took his briefs off.

“Look at you,” Ragnar marveled at Athelstan as he settled between his legs again. He appreciated the spread of them, giving kisses to the insides of Athelstan’s knees.

“Do you think the lord would hear my prayers if I said them against your thighs?” Ragnar asked. The blasphemy of Ragnar’s words was divine, and it made Athelstan’s job of continuing to watch Ragnar much harder. Ragnar looked up at him as he lowered his head until his mouth was just above Athelstan, and Athelstan could feel Ragnar’s breath over his most sensitive part.

The question must have been rhetorical because Ragnar did not wait for an answer. The first touch of his lips to Athelstan was an experience that was unparalleled. He was so gentle, and Athelstan could feel the flat of his tongue drag soft and slow. Ragnar closed his eyes as though he was savoring the moment, and Athelstan understood why he had wanted him to watch.

Seeing him revel in something so indecent sent ripples of pleasure across Athelstan’s body and his extremities began to tingle. The sensation reminded him vaguely of the snow that appeared on a malfunctioning TV. He was breathing hard and when Ragnar bent lower, took him down into his mouth, his breath caught in his throat. The contrast in feeling between the tickle of Ragnar’s beard and the silky wet of his mouth was enough to make Athelstan feel mad.

Then it happened, sensory overload, all of them compounding upon each other in an exquisite way. The tingling consumed his body and Athelstan arched his back into the release, screwing his eyes shut, letting it overtake him. Ragnar stayed still around him, and remained there until he relaxed. It was then he felt Ragnar’s mouth working, felt him swallow, and his eyes flew open.

“Did you… just…” His breaths were shallow, making it hard for him to talk. Ragnar raised an eyebrow as he pulled off of Athelstan, and the sound his mouth made – an actual pop – nearly made up for the sudden lack of stimulation.

“Yes, I did.” Ragnar said, licking his lips, slowly crawling up over Athelstan. He saw that Ragnar was even harder now, and he was flushed a deep red. He wanted to make Ragnar feel the same way he had, but he did not know if he was ready to return the favor, as it were.

Though he still felt shaken, he reached out and curled his hand around Ragnar, watching his face as he did so. He moved his fingers and palm from base to tip once, twice, before Ragnar grabbed his wrist. He took Athelstan’s hand and brought it up to his mouth, licking across his palm. Once it seemed his hand was satisfactorily wet, he kissed the middle of it, and pushed it back down to his own need.

Athelstan’s hand moved much more easily along Ragnar now, and the man leaned down to brush their lips together. Athelstan met his passion with a new effortlessness; he caught Ragnar’s bottom lip between his own, and then opened them to intensify the act.

It was like that that Ragnar spent, with Athelstan’s hand around him, sharing his breath. Athelstan felt the hot wet spatter between his fingers and across his chest. Ragnar collapsed on top of him, and Athelstan felt his heart race.

He drew his hand up from between them, looking at the pearlescent drips that ran down the back of it.

“This is what you… what I… you swallowed this? From me?” Of course Athelstan had encountered it before, he had had dreams that he had woken up from brought about the same result, but he hadn’t considered the idea of someone else ingesting it.

Ragnar nodded as best he could against Athelstan’s shoulder.

“Do you think less of me?” He asked in a rough voice. The timbre of it made Athelstan feel like he wanted to repeat what had just happened all over again, just to hear him talk like that.

Instead of answering Ragnar, he brought his hand to his mouth and cleaned up the mess he had made. The taste, or lack thereof, was curious. It was almost like nothing.

The sight of it earned him another kiss from Ragnar. When he withdrew, it was only by inches, and he let his head rest just next to Athelstan’s.

“I do not know how I am ever going to take you back to your church today,” he said, staring down at Athelstan’s lips.

“I do not know how I am going to go back to my church today either,” he replied. “The promise that I will be back will have to be enough for both of us, I suppose.”


	11. Chapter 11

 They lay in silence for a while, looking at each other. The way Ragnar had settled he lied half-on Athelstan and one of his legs had fallen between both of Athelstan’s. In the quiet Athelstan mulled over the way he liked it, liked the weight of a man on top of him, liked a warm body in such close relation to his.

“I am glad you say that you promise to come back…” Ragnar spoke softly, tracing circles around the span of Athelstan’s chest with the tips of his fingers. “I recall you saying something about part of being a good Christian was keeping your promises.”

Athelstan turned his head away from Ragnar and looked at the ceiling above them, thinking of the heavens beyond it.

“Perhaps you should not listen to the things I say about being a good Christian. A good Christian would not have done… Would not want to do half of the things I want to with you.” Ragnar pinned a kiss to the skin of Athelstan’s neck that was newly exposed to him. “A good Christian would feel broken, having given into temptation like this.”

“And how do you feel?” Ragnar asked, propping himself up on his elbow so that he could still look Athelstan in the face. His eyes swept over Ragnar and down the line of his body.

“Like I am at home in my skin. I do not think I will ever want to repent for something as good as this.”

“Forgive me, but I think it rather foolish that you would have to. If Christ cannot accept you for your humanity… I do not know why his acceptance is worth pursuing.” He cast his eyes out on the room around them, then back down to Athelstan, who gave a great sigh.

“It’s… It would be a different story if I had not taken vows. In exchange for a greater personal relationship with God, in exchange for the opportunity to help others develop their relationship with God, I gave _this_ up.” On the word ‘this’, he gestured between himself and Ragnar. “I have broken my vow, but I feel no sense of contrition.”

Ragnar sat up in bed and Athelstan missed the presence of his overlapping warmth immediately.

“Well, we can study the bible from my bed. You can still help me develop my relationship with God.” He nodded emphatically as he said it. “Shall I go get our books?”

Athelstan’s stomach muscles still felt a little weak, so when he sat up too, it was with some difficulty. He rubbed his hands through his hair, bewildered at the paradox of Ragnar.

“You still want to? You would listen to me? I understand if not, if you think me to be a hypocrite.” He looked down at his lap until Ragnar reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, then cupped his cheek carefully.

“I could listen to you talk about god all day. There are a lot of things I could do with you all day.” He paused, smiling at his own sentiment. “I do not think you are a hypocrite, I think you are a man. You do not have to be a saint for me to think of you positively, for me to respect you.”

Ragnar had lead him into temptation, and he had followed, but it did not feel evil. If anything, this series of instances over the past week had bolstered a new confidence in his faith. It could not be mere coincidence that the man at the end of the bar ended up being Ragnar; Athelstan wasn’t a man for mathematics or statistics, but he felt like there could be no probable way this had all happened by chance.

“I do not know why this has happened, us having that single night and then meeting again, but I am happy that it did. You are something else, Ragnar. A different kind of breed.” He parted his lips and Ragnar leaned in; kissed him slow. When they divided, a corner of his mouth turned up.

“Yes, I am a wolf, if your Monsignor is to be believed.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Athelstan said, though at the mention of Monsignor Ecbert, he felt worried that the time had gotten away from them again. He asked if Ragnar could please check the time, and when he found it had been nearly forty minutes, he felt a strong sense that he should be getting back soon.

Ragnar protested as best as he knew how, with wandering hands and saccharine wicked words, but Athelstan managed to get dressed. His underwear were still damp where Ragnar had made them that way, and zipping up his pants felt like burying a secret.

Ragnar made less of an effort to get dressed, only pulling on his pants and oxford. As Athelstan was doing up the buttons of his black shirt, Ragnar stepped in front of him, taking over the task.

“I have something I want you to do while we are apart, Athelstan.” His tone was light but Athelstan had a feeling Ragnar was speaking that way pointedly.

“And what would that be?” Athelstan asked, watching Ragnar work on his buttons.

“You need to touch yourself. See how long you can make yourself last. You are… quite sensitive, now – not that there’s anything wrong with that -- but I would like more time to have to… work you over. Will you do that for me?”

Ragnar turned from him to grab the white tab that completed his collar off of the ground, like he hadn’t just said something so incendiary. It was unfair that he could say things like that with such ease, not when Athelstan was easily affected by them. The thought of pleasuring himself because Ragnar wanted him to, touching himself alone in his room…it brought the blood rushing right back down south.

Ragnar inserted the tab of his collar back in its rightful place, then stood before Athelstan, waiting for an answer. Athelstan decided he would try his hand at using his words like that… Ragnar had said he had a dangerous mouth, after all.

“I will… I’ll think of what we did today. I’ll think of your hands on me. Do you think that… Do you think next time I see you I could try… To suck your cock? Could you teach me?” He asked, borrowing the phrase Ragnar had used earlier.

Ragnar inhaled sharply at the statement. Athelstan stepped past him to get his messenger bag, but Ragnar grabbed him by the wrist before he could get too far.

“You cannot say a thing like that to me just as we are about to leave, Athelstan. I have half a mind to drag you back to my bed for it.” He stared down at the place where Ragnar’s fingers dug into the skin of his wrist. Success.

“You will have to wait,” he said, extracting his arm. “When shall I come see you again? Do you want the next set of readings I have for you, for next time?” He left Ragnar standing there and collected his phone and bible, stowing them in his bag.

“The day after tomorrow,” Ragnar said. “And yes, please.” Athelstan retrieved the post-it note with new verses written on it and handed it over to him. Ragnar tucked it into his copy of the bible; then pulled his boots back on.

“I want you to be able to tell me the theme that connects all of those, okay? I won’t give you a single hint.” Ragnar put his bible back over on the far side of his bed and grabbed his leather jacket off the floor, handing it over to Athelstan again.

“It looks like we both have homework,” he said with a smile.

Ragnar picked up his helmet, unlocked the door, and together they left out the hallway that lead back to the main room. The booth was still occupied with the same group. As they walked by, Lagertha cast a glance up at them, looking from Athelstan’s face to Ragnar’s. It seemed like she had something to say, but then thought better of it when she saw the look Ragnar gave her.

They made their way across the room and then Ragnar opened the great oak door, letting him exit first. The sun’s warmth matched the kind of inner warmth Athelstan felt just below the surface of his skin that had come to be not an hour before. What he and Ragnar had done seemed more real now that they were out in the daylight… The world had continued to exist around them, no buildings had come down, and no meteors had fallen out of the sky. Athelstan had broken his vow but everything was… okay. They walked around to the back alley in an easy silence.

Ragnar took his bag and put it back in the side compartment, then rested his helmet on the seat of his bike. He took his jacket from Athelstan too, laying it across the seat as well. Athelstan wondered what this was about… they had to be leaving soon.

“I will not be able to give you a proper goodbye when I drop you off, so I thought we could do it here.” Ragnar told him, stepping into his personal space again. Athelstan leaned into him, opening his hands and placing them on Ragnar’s chest.

Ragnar held him around the waist and kissed him differently than he had before… He was purposeful and precise, taking as much as Athelstan would give him. The kiss reminded Athelstan of the way one presses a stamp to paper, exact and steady so the lines don’t bleed but the ink sinks in. Ragnar had made his mark on Athelstan, that much was certain.

He was the first to pull away, but Athelstan chased his lips, not quite ready for it to be over. Ragnar let him, and they wasted another minute they did not have on each other.

Then Ragnar pulled away again.

“You will have to wait,” he whispered. He hugged Athelstan briefly, then stepped away.

The ride back to the church was different from the ride from it… The power of the engine that Athelstan felt between his legs seemed like a physical, real-life metaphor for what Ragnar had awakened in him.

When they pulled into the church parking lot, it was semi-full for the afternoon service. People milled into its doors, so Ragnar and Athelstan could not say a worthwhile goodbye of any sort.

Once he had given Ragnar’s helmet and jacket back and had possession of his bag, Athelstan stood at the side of Ragnar’s bike.

“What time will you pick me up next?” He asked, not wanting their interaction to be over. Ragnar studied him, then looked over his shoulder at the church.

“Later in the day… Between six and seven, I think.” He said, then turned the ignition.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” Athelstan said loudly over the racket of the engine.

“Goodbye, priest,” he yelled back, smiling. Then he pushed back his kickstand and was off again. As Athelstan watched him leave, he noticed the odd parishioner giving him a look. Let them stare, he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super short, I know. and I'm going on hiatus until 9/14. sorry guys!! I'll probably still hang around in the comments but I have to write something else!


	12. Chapter 12

Athelstan felt remarkably light in step as he walked up to the entrance of the church. Upon crossing the threshold, he located Monsignor Ecbert greeting people as they passed him in order to get to the rows of pews. He waited until the group the Monsignor was currently with passed by him. As they took their leave, he strode up to Ecbert, intending to let him know he needn’t worry about waiting for a text.

Before Athelstan could call out to Monsignor Ecbert, his eyes found Athelstan. They widened immediately, as though Athelstan were a ghost or some other cause for alarm.

Monsignor Ecbert left his post at the doors of the worship area and came directly to him. Without a word of conversation, he put a hand on the back of his neck and guided him toward his office. Once they were inside and the door closed behind them, he began his inquisition.

“Are you alright, Athelstan? I was beginning to worry again as the hour approached and I still had not received any communication from you. Did that man take your phone?”

Athelstan had to stop himself from revealing that the way Monsignor Ecbert phrased his questions annoyed him. He remained as neutral as possible as he answered, explaining he was just fine, and _that man_ , Ragnar, was a lot of things, but a petty thief wasn’t one of them.

“How did your studies go? Do you feel as though you are continuing to… make progress with him? I do not know how you can expect any growth from someone so compromised.”

Compromised. If only Ecbert knew how ideal a word that was to describe not Ragnar, but Athelstan. He chewed over the way to best explain what they had spoken of without going into any sensitive territory… and without lying.

“It went well, I think. He is an eager student. Today I found he had read into the bible far beyond the selections I recommended. He asked me about the concept of repentance. I think I am making progress with him already. His interest in the idea of accepting Christ seems to be genuine, at the very least.”

Ecbert’s eyes kept traveling around the lower half of Athelstan’s face as he spoke, and he wondered if there was something on it he wasn’t aware of. Ecbert raised an eyebrow at him and stuck his chin up. Athelstan was certain he was in for some scolding.

“I would be extremely weary around him if I were you,” he said in a pinched voice. “what happened to your face?”

Athelstan’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t looked in a mirror after getting out of bed with Ragnar.

“What do you mean, Monsignor?” He asked cautiously, keeping his voice surprisingly even in tone.

“The lower half of your face…” He gestured to his own face. “Around your lips and chin and cheeks, it’s red.” Monsignor Ecbert’s eyebrows furrowed as he said it and his lips pressed into a flat line.

Athelstan felt light-headed over what Ecbert had just told him… He ran through the events of his time with Ragnar at light speed and the only answer that made any kind of sense was Ragnar’s beard. Athelstan had his mother’s skin, pale and sensitive, and Ragnar’s beard rubbing against him as they kissed again and again and again must have aggravated it. That literally had to be the answer.

Obviously, he couldn’t tell that to Monsignor Ecbert.

“I, ah, it must have been…” He trailed off, running his fingers over his mouth and chin, trying to buy time. An idea that was as reasonable as anything else struck him and he decided he would tell that to Ecbert… he didn’t have any other options. “It had to have been the motorcycle helmet. The padding on the inside of it was thick and stuffy around its entire interior, except for the area left for the visor.”

It wasn’t a lie, per-say. He didn’t say directly that it was the padding of the helmet and for all Athelstan knew? It might have been. Ragnar’s beard just seemed… a likelier answer. He looked to Ecbert, hoping that had satisfied his concern, and apparently it had. He nodded slowly at Athelstan.

“Perhaps you can ask him for something a little less irritating in the future. I do imagine that you’re not through with your attempt at helping him find salvation; something tells me your hubris won’t allow you to stop.” He looked away from Athelstan and down to his desk at the hand-written notes that were presumably for today’s sermon.

Athelstan could have smiled at Ecbert’s assumption that hubris was the thing that would keep him coming back to Ragnar… if only it were that simple. He decided that would not be a bad thing for the Monsignor to think, so he embraced the angle for argument’s sake.

“I think… I do not think it is hubris to be interested in the salvation of a particular soul. It would be a great success, sort of like personal affirmation I suppose, if I am able to convert him into holiness. There may be that positive consequence, were I to accomplish that task, but it would be coincidental. The true joy of such a thing would be providing the lord with another servant. I am not done trying, to say the least.”

Monsignor Ecbert glanced up at Athelstan with a look of slight amusement.

“Of course the joy of accomplishing the herculean task of converting someone like… that man would only be secondary to your service to the lord. Of course. I do not think it strange that you are pursuing such a thing, I only hope that if it does not go the way you hope you don’t think badly of yourself for it.”

If it were a different world, Athelstan might have taken Ecbert’s words to heart, and perhaps told him of the way he had strayed from his course. He felt… somewhat less conflicted, actually, about his lack of remorse for the way things had turned with Ragnar. Ecbert didn’t think he should feel badly of himself and, well, he didn’t. Context is everything, of course, but Athelstan found the words a half comfort nonetheless.

“All I can do is try to the best of my ability,” he said carefully, “and pray for the best. Pray for Ragnar. Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to pursue a task like this, though you seem to think it a fool’s errand. If that’s the case, it will be a chance to learn. If not, all the better.”

“You’re a good man, Athelstan. You have what it takes to be a good priest too. It will be a learning process, as you say, but I have faith in you. The Lord has faith in you.” He paused, though he didn’t look up from his notes. “Why don’t you go and see if you can find some way to soothe your skin? Lotion, or a cold compress? I have services covered for both this afternoon and tonight. Go and take some time to yourself.”

It was clear Athelstan had soothed whatever worry Monsignor Ecbert had of him at the beginning of their conversation, if not entirely then at least a considerable amount. He accepted the dismissal and left Ecbert to continue preparing for the afternoon service.

Upon shutting the door to his office, Athelstan rejoiced internally about having survived the inquisition. It felt strange that he had escaped unscathed. He and Ragnar had done this thing, this sinful forbidden thing, and life seemed to have… not changed. If God were judging him, he was doing so silently. For the time being, at least. The meeting with Ecbert would have been a prime opportunity for things to fall apart and they hadn’t.

As he walked past the doors leading to the worship hall he saw that a good-sized crowd had gathered. He hoped that they would find exaltation in today’s mass; hoped that they would find it worth their time.

It was rather a good thing that Ecbert had sent him off on a solitary afternoon because Athelstan’s mind kept sliding back to the morning he had had… the second Monsignor Ecbert had told him of the ‘beard burn’, Athelstan wondered if it could be found elsewhere on his body… perhaps down his chest or between his legs.

He walked faster off to his room and was glad when he reached it. He let out a great sigh when he was finally alone, behind closed doors. Being alone was a relief. He set his bag down on his dresser and went straight to the bathroom, eager to get to the mirror.

It was then that Athelstan found out just how kind Monsignor Ecbert had been in describing the red rash that occupied over the lower half of his face and continued down his neck to the stark black line of his collar.

Looking at the semi-permanent red flush that colored his skin, it was the strangest feeling to think of where the marks had come from. A man… A man with a beard had his mouth all over Athelstan, couldn’t stop himself from it, and this was the result.

When Ecbert had first indicated something on his face, Athelstan’s mind had gone straight to the moment he had acted on his most basic, salacious desire. He had assumed the, erm, deed of bringing his fingers up to his mouth and licking the remnants of Ragnar’s pleasure away -- the way it had tasted of almost nothing – would end up meaning everything. Would end up being the thing that was his undoing.

Of course, that wasn’t the case. Athelstan supposed it was a sort of shame-based reaction… He did not think less of Ragnar for doing the same exact thing, but apparently, he harbored some guilt about having done it himself. He did not feel guilty, not tangibly, but it was unsurprising that some subconscious part of him felt it.

However, now that the instant of fear had passed and he was finally alone, he felt comfortable in acknowledging that he had enjoyed the act. Perhaps the fact that he liked such a thing, could readily imagine himself doing it again – especially if it could draw similar reactions from Ragnar – was a source of that panic.

He was happy that the marks left from what they had done were much less damning. They still spoke of pleasure, the way Athelstan had luxuriated beneath lips that were eager to taste his skin. He felt like a changed man for baring the manifestation of Ragnar’s affection like that.

He removed the white tab from his collar, thinking of how hands that weren’t his own had done it for him only a short while ago. Was this what it was like to be a man, a normal man? To experience such affection and then be ruled by thoughts of it? To crave it though he had just indulged in it?

The memory of the morning played out in delicious, vivid Technicolor as Athelstan undressed himself in front of the mirror, discarding his black shirt on the floor and then his white t-shirt underneath.

He found that the redness made by Ragnar did continue, covering areas of his torso in sections. At the crux of his neck and shoulders it was particularly severe, then a mere pink across the spread of his chest, and then darker the lower it traveled. It was as if his skin had been made a map of Ragnar’s ardor… the parts of him that excited Ragnar the most coded by color.

Athelstan ran his fingers down the jagged kind-of path Ragnar had created wishing that that man – as Ecbert liked to refer to him – was with him now, making more of a mess of skin. His arousal grew more evident as he recalled the way Ragnar’s mouth had felt as it traveled down his body. The way he had undressed Athelstan so particularly, as though being given a gift. The way he treated each part of him as something he was increasingly thankful for.

There is no part of you that I do not want to taste, Ragnar had said, and he hadn’t been lying. Athelstan allowed his hand to drop to the front of his pants and run gently over the hardness of his growing desire… his cock. If he was going to do this, enter the world of physical pleasure, there was no logic behind avoiding the language associated with it. Out of all of the un-Christian things Athelstan had acquiesced to thus far, this seemed the most minimal a leap to make.

He undid the button on his pants and slowly pulled his zipper down. Lust hung heavy on his shoulders and made the bathroom feel small and hot though he could feel the cool tile of the floor.

Athelstan hadn’t directly remembered the dampness Ragnar had worked to create in the fabric of his briefs that lay directly over his cock but he found the wet mark of it still there. It hadn’t been given a proper chance to dry confined under the fabric of his pants. Even though Ragnar wasn’t with him in person now, he was still present; had left traces of himself everywhere.

He grasped himself through his briefs, unsure of the way a thing like this was supposed to go… only that he wanted to do what Ragnar asked of him. Looking up from the way his hard cock looked, cupped in his hand through the material, he saw his cheeks were a new kind of red that Ragnar’s facial hair wasn’t responsible for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back from hiatus!! I'm going to try to start posting every day again. Sorry that this part is so short!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I've been gone so long! I wrote a good portion of the Woodstock AU before a kindly soul on tumblr convinced me to finish this fic first.

It was an odd thing to watch himself like this, to see himself like this. Ragnar had been the first to experience him in such a state and because of it, Athelstan couldn’t help but see himself through Ragnar’s eyes. With a heavy breath he pushed the waistband of his briefs down, watching the way his cock sprung forward in the mirror. Just days ago he had awoken from a dream starring himself and Ragnar and worked to discourage his arousal… and here he was, engaging with it. Enjoying it. Something inside of him had been set aflame and it didn’t seem like it would burn out any time soon.

He ran the tips of his fingers over the head of his cock, thinking of the way Ragnar had taken it into his mouth and closed his eyes, like such a thing was cause for reverie. Then he remembered what he had said to Ragnar, that next time he would try it.

Athelstan surprised himself, both by saying a thing like that and insinuating that there would be a next time. In the moment, he hadn’t considered the entirety of what that meant. He couldn’t wait to be with Ragnar again… in his arms, under his lips, in his hand. Never in his life had Athelstan thought someone would be covetous over him, but there Ragnar was.

He had shown the how he wanted Athelstan in several ways, with his words, his mouth, and his body. Athelstan supposed he had shown Ragnar the same signs of want… there was something in him that reveled in intimacy with a man, specifically. Really, it was the very crux of his sexuality.

He curled his fingers around the length of his erection as he thought of the way he had done the same to Ragnar. The extremity of his curiosity – no, his desire – had been so compelling that reaching out to touch Ragnar had been an almost thoughtless act. The way one gasps for clean air in the midst of a fire. It had been his natural reaction. There was something thrilling in acknowledging this; Athelstan began to pump his hand up and down along his cock. If he was going to embrace himself, he was going to _embrace_ himself.

Of course he’d made sure there would be a second time. He watched the way the muscles in his bicep and forearm engaged, again and again. The way his pale fingers looked against his flushed hardness… recalling the way the head of Ragnar’s cock had gone from pink, to red, to a crimson verging on scarlet. Somewhere between berry and blood. The way he had swiped the little pearl of fluid away from the very tip, only for another to form in its place immediately after. He had told Ragnar that next time, he would like to try to suck his cock. It would be… exhilarating, and probably terrifying, for Athelstan to open his mouth for Ragnar, to feel the wild warmth coming off of him, against his lips, then the slide of his skin over his tongue.

The thought of it spurred him on, but he worked to keep the pace of his hand slow. He wanted to draw this out. It had felt sensational, in a word, when Ragnar had taken him in. Sweet and soft and hot. Athelstan wanted to do the same for Ragnar, though he doubted he would be able to accomplish much, it being his first attempt at such a thing. He would try his hardest though, and he was sure Ragnnar would appreciate his effort.

Ragnar’s reaction at only the _suggestion_ of it had been more than Athelstan could have hoped for. He liked that he had that pull over Ragnar. It was powerful. Made him feel powerful. His hand sped up helplessly, and the sensation was what he needed, but it was… half uncomfortable. Dry.

 _Oh_. When he had touched Ragnar this way, with greater purpose, trying to help him find his release just as he had done, Ragnar had taken his hand by the palm and licked it. He’d wondered why in the moment but he realized now he’d been making it slick, anticipating what Athelstan was feeling now. Oh. He released his cock from his grasp though he missed the stimulation almost immediately. The angle it stood at away from his body -- nearly against his body -- was an indication he was close to losing his control, if what he had seen and experienced with Ragnar was anything to go by.

He brought his hand to his mouth, watching himself again as he did so. He closed his eyes just as his mouth hovered above his palm, just when he could feel his breath on it. Outside of the absence of beard, it was like he could live inside of the moment it had been Ragnar’s mouth on his skin. Once he had given a tongue-bath to the whole spread of his palm, he pressed a kiss to the middle of it, just as Ragnar had done.

He opened his eyes slowly as he brought his hand back down to his waiting cock and wrapped his hand back around it, low first, then leisurely along its length, allotting as much pressure as he could take. Watching himself move so deliberate and slow, acting in search of pleasure alone, he felt himself turn a corner. A sensation built in his thighs, between his legs, and in his lower stomach. It came on quickly, like a thunderstorm in July. His ability to control his movement waned, and that crackle of electricity struck, a moment of lightning. Then it was thunder, an all-consuming roar that hit him hard, so hard he had to brace himself on the counter with his unoccupied hand.

His back arched in parts, at the base of his spine and then up it in increments. He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he opened them, seeing they looked an incredible shade of blue, almost fake. Cornflower blue, his mind supplied. It seemed odd to think of something as adolescent as a Crayola color when he had just finished something so debauched, but that contrast seemed to be a perfect expression of the strange place in life he currently occupied. Somewhere between boy and man, man and God.

He had to focus his eyes hard on the small white tiles of his floor to find the places where his release had landed. This compounded the reality of what he had done, what he was doing, perhaps even more so than when he spent in Ragnar’s mouth, though he certainly enjoyed that sensation more.

There were no signs of God in his bathroom and he was glad for it. He did feel the vague stirrings of his own cognitive dissonance, that between his beliefs, his wants, and his actions. It had been _so_ easy to align the three for as long as he was in the business of making a conscious attempt to do so. He had no idea how to even _begin_ to go about the process of sorting out how to align them again.

His skin felt hot and uncomfortable, like he was wearing an itchy sweater three sizes too small, though he was naked as the day he had been born.

The irony was not lost on Athelstan as he began to run the water for his shower, making sure it wasn’t hot, hardly warm, just above cool. The shift in the purpose a cold shower served him was radical. He decided he liked it like this more, it felt akin to swimming in a lake on a summer’s day instead of taking a polar ice-plunge.

With that out of the way and the water running down his hair, over his back, Athelstan conjured up images of the way Ragnar might react to the news that he had indeed done his homework. While in the shower, Athelstan heard the bell tower in the church chime four times, indicating the arrival of evening and the end of their afternoon service.

After his shower, looking at himself in the mirror again, he found the cool temperature of the water had calmed down the ridiculous rash of beard-burn Ragnar left behind, but not eliminated it completely. Athelstan felt like a changed man for what he had done and saw himself as such, though he was sure there was no physical tell that he was not the same chaste, inexperienced boy he was when he left that morning.

He dressed in some of his civilian clothing, worn blue jeans and a faded striped shirt, before heading down to the kitchen. It was used by all persons employed by the parish as well as the members of the current rehab session, and as a result there was always a wealth in the variety of ingredients to choose and meals to make. Athelstan decided on bowtie pasta with marinara and an apple that looked near death but tasted crisp and sweet.

Athelstan was famished and finished all of his noodles within minutes. _For once_ , his tendency to overestimate servings of uncooked pasta was not wasteful or an annoyance. He ate every single last one of them, as well as the viable meat of the apple, whittling it down to what could only be called its core in the technical sense of the word.

Now fed, he felt sleep lick at his temples. Before he listened to its beckoning, Athelstan wandered down the halls of the church, back to Monsignor Ecbert’s office. He came by to question if Ecbert had changed his mind and did, in fact, need him for the evening mass.

Monsignor Ecbert greeted him, listened to him, and sent him away with no more than a word and a wave, as he was in the midst of pouring over his notes again. Feeling rather pleased he had the night off; Athelstan slunk back to his room. Still, he had not faced a single consequence for acquiescing to his bodily needs.

Sleep came easy to him and was black and dreamless; an abrupt change from the series of visions he’d had prior to… _engaging_ with Ragnar as he did. No sex, no death, nothing at all. He felt rested upon waking, which was good, because it was his turn to lead the group sessions in their rehab program today.

He liked working with addicts, alcoholics, you name it, because though their struggles were unique, there was always a common theme of a pain or a loss, and injury, emotional or physical. It was hard work to get to the root of an individual’s sorrow, but once reached, it was much easier to guide them into the Lord’s hands. Watching someone break down enough to admit they are powerless, and accept a higher power? Nothing like it on earth. He felt like he was doing real work, good work, when he listened to their stories. It was like a kind of extended confessional session, and he was glad to share in shouldering their burden.

This week was their time to concentrate on step five, “admitting to god, ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs”. From past experience Athelstan knew this was a hard mountain for some to climb, and as he prepared for the day he hoped that all of his clients would make progress. He questioned internally if he was the right person to do step five, due to his current… indiscretions, and decided he was.

Whatever he was doing with Ragnar (it did not have a name) did not feel wrong. He pushed his personal life to the back of his mind and headed down to the rooms their rehab occupied. If he was going to have a personal life, it would not interfere with his professional one. _Then_ it would become wrong.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time between bible study sessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Sorry for disappearing. Alternate POV.

They had a laundry list of an agenda for the day, and it seemed they would be left to their own devices to complete the tasks.

Ragnar was there but he might as well have been fifty miles away, or at the bottom of an ocean, for the level of involvement he put forth.

As they sat around the oaken tables of Old Valhalla and discussed individuals in town -- and certain groups -- with the largest accounts of debt to them, Ragnar sat at the farthest end, feet away from the bulk of  
his associates, with a dinner plate set out like there might have been a meal before him, but the plate held weed and rolling papers instead.

He had shown up late to work that day. Rollo had to open up Valhalla in his absence, something that was atypical for the fact that Ragnar preferred to do it himself.

Instead he rolled in hours late, silent, nodding his only greeting.

"Look who graces us with his presen--" Lagertha jumped right in to teasing him for his late arrival, but a sharp look from Rollo set her silent.

And so Ragnar had gone to his back room, returning with his plate of weed and papers to sit at the head of his table. He looked at the faces of his cohorts occasionally, but the majority of time he spent with his eyes pinned to the ceiling, where they naturally went to look as he tipped back his head to exhale.

Before smoking, Ragnar had set to work rolling quite a few joints. He did not want to pause between each to re-roll.

Lagertha, curious as to what had Ragnar in such a state, prompted Floki to go to him and ask for one of the joints for himself. She had a feeling there were swollen, bruise-colored storm clouds beneath his relatively placid exterior.

He was not one to indulge to excess in this manner without some kind of prompting. He looked down on the behavior in their customers, whose desire for oblivion led them to sell their lives -- sometimes piecemeal, sometimes wholesale -- to their organization.

They weren't the worst offenders either... no. those were the people who had to have their payment taken by force.

Ragnar viewed them all in similar measure: as people who lost themselves to a fool's cause. So Lagertha knew he would not engage in such behavior without reason... she imagined he was trying to keep a certain kind of temper or rage at bay, and so she sent Floki down to him, curious how much (or little) it would take to break his calm.

He did not look at Floki when he arrived by his side, staring instead down the deep middle of his field of vision, far beyond the opposite wall of Old Valhalla. She watched Floki stoop to ask in his ear, in that strange unnatural way he had of moving.

To her surprise, Ragnar merely inclined his head, disappearing momentarily behind another cloud of smoke as he exhaled. Floki's eyes bulged for a moment, the surprise he too felt made obvious from the way the whites of his eyes stood in stark contrast to the thick black rimming them. He grabbed a joint from Ragnar's row of pre-rolled stock like a cobra was coiled around them, as though he might be bitten if he were too slow.

Ragnar made no further movement than taking yet another drag, and Floki turned and began his way back to Lagertha, the corner of his mouth turning up as he placed the joint between his lips.

They were all uncertain of the way their leader was behaving... quite unsure if they should proceed with business as usual.

Today was a day of retribution. They would ride out to a farm on the farthest corner of their district where a young married couple lived.

The husband had inherited the farm after the death of his father, and he wasted no time moving himself and his wife in. Over the span of just two years, what was once a postcard perfect picture of rural americana dilapidated into junkie squalor. The horses and cows were thin, the brick red paint peeled off the farmhouse, and the odor of unkempt animal living quarters hit you like a wall of noxious fumes about a hundred feet away.

Along with the farmhouse, the husband inherited a nice lump sum his dad had in savings. Over the span of those two years, they had burned through the money, like a room filled with gas introduced to an open flame.

Over the first year and a half, it was a windfall for their operation. The couple fed their addiction indiscriminately, escalating their personal habits into such steep amounts they could probably put down an elephant. Then the money started slowing down.

"Half of the lump sum is tied up in equities," the wife had said.

"We've got my dad's accountant making necessary arrangements as we speak," the husband added. "You know we're good for it," he said with a smile. "I think we've given you enough cash over the past year to buy a whole new fleet of bikes for your crew."

"And we have given you enough heroin for a small army," Lagertha responded, not an ounce of mirth in her voice. Their relationship was transactional. There was no need to pretend to be friends.

As a down payment of sorts, the husband gave them half of the money for their week's supply.

"We have no qualms with collecting what we're owed," Lagertha had told him as she held out a plastic blag filled with not-quite beige, yet darker than off-white, fine grain product.

"And we got no problem paying you!" The wife had said, her eyes were on their newly acquired treasure trove.

Getting on her bike that day, Lagertha had turned to look back at the farm over her shoulder.

She did not need to sniff the air to smell the blood in it. She knew what desperation looked like and she had seen it on their faces. The farm would be a welcome addition to the list of properties the gang had accumulated. As she kicked off, she briefly wondered how long it would take them to fall apart.

The way it all shook out, it took them about two months. They paid less and less of the cost of their weekly purchase, and the gang recorded their debt to the dollar.

This was a drug business, not a bank, and credit operated differently. They had done this before... giving their clientele just enough rope to hang themselves with was something of a science. they knew how to get people in deep, over their heads, and eat them alive.

Ragnar usually enjoyed the days they picked to settle scores but the way he acted left even Rollo wondering if he would accompany them out to the farm.

He gave the order to start heading out and the combined noise of their engines was enormous, and then muffled, as the door of Old Valhalla was pushed open and swung shut, again and again.

He waited until everyone had filtered out before turning to face his brother, about a fourth a table away.

"Will you be joining us?" He punctuated his statement by setting his closed fist down with some force on the table. Ragnar's eyes fell on the place of impact.

The joint he was on was smoked down so far he had to pinch it between his thumb and index finger to take a final hit.

"I do not think so," he said carefully, dragging the cherry of the remnants of his joint out across the plate, then wiping his hands of the ash.

"Is there a problem? Something we can help with? Something I can help with?" Rollo asked. Sometimes Ragnar chose to keep tasks he thought particularly grim to himself.

He didn't meet Rollo's gaze, instead busying himself with breaking down another bud of marijuana. A smile played across his mouth briefly.

"No. There is no problem."

"Ragnar." Rollo said, and finally Ragnar looked up at him.

His eyes were pink and glassy from his marathon smoke session and they made the bright blue of his irises shine.

"I'm not lying, or hiding anything from you, brother. There is nothing to be done."

Rollo sat, straddling the bar bench.

"There is always something to be done. Say the word and we will take care of it together."

He was gearing up for whatever Ragnar might say. They had been to hell and back, taken the scenic route, bought a summering home on a lake of fire. They could handle anything. They were a force of nature.

"You misunderstand, Rollo. This is not business related." He paused, thinking of the way he had found Athelstan in his bar, seated between Rollo and Floki, holding him hostage as a lamb for slaughter. "Well, not really."

Rollo continued to stare Ragnar down. He was on the edge of telling, Rollo knew it.

"If it is even slightly related to business matters -- and I would say that it is, it's got you sitting out from our ride today --"

"Priest." Ragnar interrupted, holding his brother's gaze. "I said the word." His tone became sing-songy, like a gloating child.

At that, he returned his focus to his joint-rolling. The conversation was not over, though.

"Athelstan? The boy priest?" Rollo laughed, of all things.

"I thought you had had your way. Is he making trouble? Perhaps riling up his congregation? Jesus," Rollo said, and Ragnar's eyes flashed back to him for a moment. "He must know we could destroy him."

"As I said, brother, you misunderstand." Ragnar's tone was pointed, prickly even. "He is not making trouble."

Rollo scratched at his beard, looking around the room like he might suddenly see something in the dim light to bolster his comprehension. Ragnar watched his brother now that his brown eyes were elsewhere. He saw the moment the truth of the matter dawned on him.

"Ragnar... You know I am indifferent to such things, but..." He hesitated. This was a delicate matter and they were not delicate men.

"I am all too aware of the gravity and nuisance of such an affection." Ragnar said softly, bringing the bible page-thin rolling paper to his mouth, licking the long edge of it.

"You don't know him," Rollo began, but Ragnar interrupted again.

"I knew him before you brought him to me. I couldn't stop thinking of him even before you walked him through my doors. My thoughts are much the same, even now."

Having carefully sealed the seam of his joint, he looked back to Rollo.

"There is nothing to be done."

"You are skipping out on today's festivities because you have a crush?" Rollo asked, feeling a pinching annoyance at his brother's whims. He wanted Ragnar to say it.

"Do not be rude. I'm not a schoolboy."

"You're acting like one."

Ragnar rolled his eyes.

"I'm taking a day off. Maybe two. I see him again the day after tomorrow."

"To what end?" Rollo asked, his tone flippant. This was a fool's desire.

"I don't know." With that, he placed the new joint between his lips, and stood. "Have fun," he said quietly, turning to walk back in the direction of his office.

Rollo watched him retreat, before leaving himself, stepping out of Old Valhalla into the sun. The perfect kind of day to collect what was his. His own motorcycle was the last left out front, save for Ragnar's.

He rode away, catching up with the group after some additional speed. They would have fun.

 


End file.
